Wynter's Tale
by Aurora Nova
Summary: A young Nord woman with an unknown past fights against her destiny to become the hero of Skyrim.
1. Prologue: Helgen

**Wynter's Tale**

_Prologue: Helgen_

_(Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the world of Skyrim, or any of the characters created by Bethesda which populate that world. My story follows the main quest line, but with the personal insights my character, Wynter, might have as told from her point of view. Some details of gameplay have been reworked to make a better story, and some dialogue lifted to give the reader a sense of familiarity. I give kudos to Bethesda for making such an engaging and inspiring game. Please read and review: constructive criticism is always welcome. Thank you.)_

She awoke with blurry vision and a pounding head. The throbbing seemed to keep pace with the steady clop-clop of hooves on cobblestone. She was riding in an open cart, with her hands bound in front of her. Across from her sat two other men, and next to her was a third, all bound at the wrists as she was; the man next to her was gagged as well. Shaking her head to clear it made her wince in pain, so she settled for squeezing her eyes shut and opening them again. Her situation did not improve.

"Ah, you're awake finally," commented the big Nord across from her. Sandy-haired and square-jawed, with kindly eyes, he had the brawny build of most of her kin.

"What's your name?" asked the big Nord, kindly. "Mine's Ralof. I'm from Riverwood."

The little man next to him mumbled, "Lokir," dejectedly.

"Wynter," she replied, still woozy. "I—I'm not sure where I'm from. I've been all over. Most recently in Cyrodiil, I suppose."

"They caught you coming across the border when they ambushed us," Ralof nodded. "You picked a bad time to come home, little sister."

Wynter knew they weren't related, and that Ralof was using the term to acknowledge that she was Nord, like him. She was starting to warm to the big man, in spite of the hopeless situation confronting them.

"What's wrong with _him_?" Lokir sneered, gesturing to the bound and gagged man seated to Wynter's right.

"Keep a civil tongue in your head," Ralof spat. "That's Ulfric Stormcloak, the _true_ High King of Skyrim!"

Ulfric said nothing, but stared intently at Wynter. It made her feel uncomfortable. The man was at least twice her age, perhaps a bit more, but that hadn't stopped Grognak from—_no!_ She wouldn't think about that now. She'd sent Grognak to Oblivion in the most agonizing and humiliating way she could think of. That was years ago, and he was past history.

"Ulfric Stormcloak?" Lokir marveled. "The Jarl of Windhelm? Oh gods, if they've caught _you—" _He broke off and began to pray to whatever Divines would listen to spare his worthless soul. Whether they heard him or not, none would know.

"This is all your fault," the wiry little Nord rounded on Ralof. "If it hadn't been for you Stormcloaks, I could have stolen that horse and been long gone by now." _I'm no Stormcloak,_ Wynter thought, but kept her peace. It was pointless to argue now.

"We're all thieves and bandits under the skin," Ralof observed in mild disgust. It was clear he had no respect for Lokir. "Where are you from, horse-thief?"

"Why do you care?" the little man shot back miserably.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," said the big Nord, equably.

Lokir hesitated at first, then admitted, "Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead."

By now the cart had wheeled its bumpy way down a long hill and was approaching a small, walled village. The wooden stockade surrounding the town was heavily patrolled by Imperial soldiers. People began running as soon as they saw the cart pulling in, some following along at a respectful distance, some running ahead to the courtyard to get a better view of the prisoners. _Or to get a good seat for the execution,_ Wynter thought bleakly.

"Helgen," Ralof mused. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl here. I wonder if Vilod still makes that mead flavored with juniper berries?"

_So it ends like this,_ Wynter thought morosely. Her entire life, short as it had been, seemed destined to end in capture, prison and death. There was no escape this time, no Adelvard to save her.

The thought of her old mentor brought a half-smile to her face which quickly faded. Adelvard would have laughed at the Imperials with their rigid rules and strict protocols. He would have spit in their faces as they led him to the block. She wondered if she could generate enough saliva and project it far enough to hit someone. It would be poetic justice: her last comment on what she thought of the Imperials. Adelvard would have been proud of her.

"There's General Tullius," Ralof sneered. "Leader of this sweet band of cutthroats. And he's got those Thalmor with him. I knew they'd be mixed up in this, damned elves!" Wynter could have told him that. She'd already seen what the Thalmor did to Nord prisoners before being brought here. She wondered if one of the Aldmeri would be close enough for her to spit on him.

The cart came to a jerking halt, and Lokir exclaimed, "Why are we stopping?"

"Why do you think, horse-thief?" Ralof muttered. "End of the line."

"No! They can't do this!" Lokir cried. "I'm not with you! Tell them!"

Ralof shook his head in disgust once more as he jumped off the wagon. He turned back and held up his bound hands to help her descend. One of the Imperials pushed him back into line, and Wynter was forced to scramble down on her own.

One by one, an Imperial soldier called their names to have them step forward, only to be sent to the group in the courtyard, to await their final fate. Wynter wondered if she would end up in Sovngarde. Tradition held that all brave Nords ended up there. But she hadn't done anything to be brave about.

Ulfric Stormcloak was called up first, and he gave her another long, searching look before marching, tall and proud, to the courtyard where the headsman waited. Ralof murmured after him, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." Ralof followed when his name was called, then the little Nord from Rorikstead.

Lokir, whose courage had been hanging by a thread up until now, finally snapped. "I won't let you take me!" he screamed, making a break for it. Hands still bound in front of him, he ran as fast as he could for the main gate.

"Archers!" the Captain of the Imperials called out. It was over in a minute. Lokir never made it to the gate. "Anyone else want to try?" the Captain glared menacingly. "You there," she called, looking directly at Wynter. "Step forward."

Wynter was shoved from behind and stood before the Captain and her Lieutenant. The young man looked her over then consulted his notes. "Who are you?" he asked her, perplexed.

"Wynter," she said, standing as tall and as bravely as she could. If they were going to cut her head off, she was not going to the block a coward, like Lokir, and by the Nine, she would not give these Imperial dogs the satisfaction of seeing her beg for her life.

Again, the Lieutenant seemed confused and consulted his papers. "Captain, what should we do?" he asked. "She's not on the list."

A wave of relief rushed over Wynter. Finally! They'd realized their mistake. She'd be allowed to go on her way.

"Forget the list," the Captain said coldly. "She goes to the block."

"I'm sorry," the Lieutenant said, genuinely concerned over his Captain's indifference. "We'll make sure your remains are returned to the nearest Temple for interment."

Wynter gaped at the woman who had so callously condemned her to an unjustified death. Hatred, cold and deep, took root in her heart, and she gathered enough saliva to spit in the Captain's face, thus sealing her fate.

"Curse you, and all you damned Imperials!" Wynter gritted. "May you rot in Oblivion!"

The Captain backhanded her and waved to the guards to haul her over to the courtyard where the other prisoners waited. She caught Ulfric Stormcloak still staring at her, and his eyes crinkled in an approving smile above his gag. Small though the gesture was, it heartened her. Maybe she'd end up in Sovngarde after all.

General Tullius stepped up to the bound Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfric, for his part, did his best to look bored with the entire proceedings.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," Tullius intoned, "you are guilty of treason against the Empire and of the murder of your rightful king, Torygg. You claim to have the best interests of Skyrim at heart, but no one could mean that and use the power of the voice to murder his own king."

Ulfric struggled and grunted against the gag, but his words were unintelligible.

"Begin the executions," was all Tullius said, as he stepped back toward the group of Thalmor waiting nearby.

"Yes, General Tullius!" snapped the Captain. "Give them their last rites," she ordered a nearby priest.

The woman obliged and began to appeal to the Divines—to the _Eight, _Wynter noticed, not the Nine as there should have been—to accept the souls of the soon-to-be-departed.

A Stormcloak soldier, impatient and offended, called out, "Enough of this! Let's get on with it!" He bravely stepped forward and put his own head on the block. "Tonight I go to my brothers and sisters in Sovngarde," he declared. "Can you say that, you Imperial scum?"

The headsman's axe finished any other comments he might have made.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof murmured respectfully.

From somewhere above, echoing through the surrounding mountains, an odd roaring noise was heard.

"What was that?" the young Imperial Lieutenant called, looking around.

"Nothing," dismissed the Captain. "Bring forth the next prisoner." Her eyes narrowed in hate. "The Nord woman."

Wynter threw a glance at the Jarl of Windhelm, who straightened and stood taller, if that was possible, and gave her a reassuring nod. One of the Imperials shoved her from behind, and she was led to the block, still warm and wet from the blood of her predecessor. Her knees were kicked from behind to make her kneel, and her head was pushed onto the sticky, bloody block. From her point of view, out over the watchtower and across to the mountains, a huge, black, winged shadow wheeled closer. The roar came again.

"What in Oblivion is that?" the headsman cried.

Suddenly, all chaos erupted as an enormous black dragon roared and swooped down over Helgen, settling on the tower above her. For a brief moment she wondered which death would be quicker: beheading or death by dragonfire?

But the huge dragon didn't belch forth flames. Its next breath delivered a thunderous shout that stunned everyone, dropping to their knees those who had been standing. And Wynter felt, in some curious corner of her mind, that she almost understood _words_ in the dragon's roar.

_"Strun bah-" _it roared, but with something else in there she didn't quite catch.

Immediately, the sun disappeared behind gathering storm clouds. Fireballs began to rain down from the sky. Wynter was still reeling from the force of the dragon's shout, and her vision was blurry and indistinct. The beast turned its head away from Wynter toward a group of archers who were peppering it with arrows. Almost in annoyed negligence, the beast roared, _"Yol toor shul!"_, and a gout of flames erupted from its gaping maw, incinerating the guards where they stood.

"Wynter! Get up and run!" Ralof shouted—in normal, human speech. "For the love of the gods, if you want to live, follow me!"

Dazed, but determined, Wynter scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward her fellow prisoner, who was pointing toward a guardhouse tower several yards away. Thick, black sulfurous smoke stung her eyes and choked her breath. The dragon roared again and another group of people were burned where they stood, or sent fleeing from the flaming death of its breath.

She followed Ralof more by sound than by sight. Her skin was reddened from the dragon fire, and she was covered in soot, dirt and blood. The shift she was wearing was torn, stained and barely kept her decent. Her feet were bruised already, wrapped only in rags, and every sharp stone she stepped on made her wince in pain and stumble.

"This way, quickly!" Ralof exclaimed, ducking through the door. Wynter dodged several panicked townspeople and gained the relative, though temporary, safety of the tower.

"By the gods!" Ralof exclaimed. "That was a dragon! Just like in the old tales! So the legends are true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," a quiet, authoritative voice commented. Wynter turned to see the man they called Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, now unbound and ungagged. Though his tunic and trousers were stained and dirty, his bearing gave every appearance of a man used to giving orders, and having those orders obeyed. His brown hair had only the lightest touch of silver beginning at the temples, and he wore it long and loose, swept back from his chiseled features. His face was rugged and square-jawed, with a hawk-like nose set over a thin-lipped mouth that looked as though it rarely smiled. Hard, deep-set, hooded gray eyes met her wide blue-gray ones. He gave her another long, penetrating look, but said nothing to her.

The tower shook as the dragon raged outside. Several loose stones and a lot of dust rained down on them.

"We have to get out of here," Jarl Ulfric urged. "It's not safe here. We should separate and meet up later."

"We'll have to go up," Ralof agreed. He turned to Wynter, "Come on! Let's get out of here!" He headed up the stairs, and with no other options available, Wynter followed. Halfway up the flight of stone steps, however, a thunderous crash shook the tower as the wall fell away. A blast of fire seared its way inside, killing one of the other Stormcloaks. Through the hole, Wynter could see, just for a moment, the gaping maw of the black dragon before it withdrew. The heat was so intense she felt her skin blister; Ralof caught the worst of it, and was in a bad way.

"Through the hole there," he gasped in pain. "Jump to the other building, that inn over there. I'll be right behind you. Jump!" he exclaimed as she hesitated.

"Are you out of your mind?" Wynter exclaimed. "That's ten feet away at least!"

"Jump!" Ralof shouted, and gave her a push. Wynter's natural cat-like reflexes, carefully honed under Adelvard's tutelage, took over, and she leaped across the intervening space, landing hard in the attic of the inn, which was already engulfed in flames. Her ankle turned under her, adding to the pain she was already in. There was only one way down, through a hole in the floor where stairs had been, and she took it, jumping lightly down to the first floor, favoring her sore ankle as much as she could.

She limped outside and found herself in the middle of the street. Wynter looked behind her, but the inn was fully involved in flames now, and she knew there was no way Ralof would be able to follow her. Part of her hoped he would make it out of Helgen, and she hoped she'd meet him again. But the greater part of her just wanted to survive long enough to get out of the village herself, and get as far away from here as she could.

Not far away was a group of two men with a small boy. She ran over to them to ask which way to Helgen's main gate. In the chaos and confusion, the smoke and the fire, she had gotten completely turned around and lost her sense of direction.

Before she could ask, however, the black dragon landed several yards away with a heavy crash that shook the ground beneath her feet. The boy screamed, just as the dragon roared again and a gout of flame swept toward them.

Out of nowhere, an Imperial soldier bull-rushed into their group, knocking them over. The old man, the boy, and Wynter rolled to relative safety behind a broken wall. The younger man wasn't as lucky, and the boy screamed, _"Papaaa!"_ as the flames consumed him. Wynter turned her face away, sickened.

The soldier helped the old man to his feet, steadied him and placed the sobbing child into his arms. "Gunnar, keep the boy safe, will you?"

Gunnar nodded. "I will, Hadvar, thank you!" The Imperial turned to her. It was the young Lieutenant who had apologized for sending her to the block. He looked mildly surprised to see her.

"Still alive prisoner?" he grinned. "Better stick with me if you want to stay that way."

She'd sooner burn in Oblivion! He was an Imperial, and all her troubles to this point could be traced to them, but right now she had few other options. Wynter swallowed her pride and followed Hadvar through the burning streets, dodging the panicked townsfolk and steering clear of falling debris. The smell of burning flesh threatened to make her vomit, so she breathed as lightly as she could through her mouth, trying to keep up with the Imperial Lieutenant.

"Stick close to the wall," he advised her as they passed between two demolished buildings. Just as he spoke, there was a tremendous _whooshing_ downdraft, sending dust, debris and flames their way. The wall buckled slightly, but held, as the black dragon settled on top of it. It didn't seem to notice them, practically beneath its feet, but Wynter couldn't help but be keenly aware of the razor-sharp claws coiling and uncoiling just an arm's length from where she huddled against the wall. Had she been a braver, or more foolhardy person, she would have reached out to touch the gleaming, sword-sharp talon. In a moment, though, the dragon launched itself into the air again, and she and Hadvar were able to wind their way through the shattered buildings and out into another street.

"This way!" he called back to her, heading for another guardhouse tower. Suddenly he stopped as the great black wyrm settled itself at the end of the street. Between them, the soldier saw something that made him angrier than just having to deal with a dragon.

"Ralof!" he shouted, and Wynter's heart soared. Her fellow prisoner was still alive! "Ralof, you damned traitor!"

"We're escaping this time, Hadvar!" Ralof called back. "You can't stop us!"

Helplessly, Hadvar shook his sword at the Stormcloak. "Fine!" he snarled back. "I hope the damned dragon takes you all to Oblivion!" He turned back to Wynter. "This way, follow me!" he said, and headed for the far side of the tower. Wynter, however, looked toward Ralof.

"Here, Wynter!" he called. "I know the way out!"

There really was no choice in her mind. She had suffered much already at the hands of the Imperials. And while she didn't necessarily hold with the beliefs of the Stormcloaks, at least they hadn't tried to cut off her head. She followed Ralof into the tower.

Inside, they found another Stormcloak, though this one was dead. Ralof said it was a friend of his, and pointed out to Wynter that she might as well take the man's armor and weapons, since he wouldn't be needing them any longer. He cut her wrist bonds, freeing her hands for the first time in days. He busied himself across the room, tending his burns with his back turned, to give her enough privacy to change.

She gratefully removed her tunic, after carefully removing her only remaining possession from the lining inside: a small, round, gleaming silver locket. She'd had it as long as she could remember, and she wasn't going to lose it now. Adelvard had told her it was on her when he found her as a baby, a few hours after her mother had died giving birth to her. She transferred it to an inner pocket of the Stormcloak tunic and struggled into the rest of the gear.

The tower they entered was a dead-end. A gate closed off their only other exit, and very soon they heard voices approaching from the other side.

"Imperials!" hissed Ralof, and they slipped to either side of the open-grated door. Wynter hefted the iron sword in her hand. It was heavy and cumbersome, and she hadn't been trained in melee combat, but it was all she had. She pulled the shield closer to her body and waited.

The Imperials saw them, however, as they approached the gate. With them was the female Captain, and she saw Wynter staring at her with loathing from the other side.

"Get that gate open, quickly!" she ordered. "Don't let them escape!"

A part of Wynter wondered why, with a dragon attacking outside, the Captain would be so concerned about a couple of escaping prisoners.

"Aren't your priorities a little skewed?" she taunted. "I should think you have more important things to worry about than us right now!"

"Kill _him_!" the Captain ordered her men, pointing at Ralof. "But leave that bitch for me!"

"Bring it," Wynter said, coldly. "I'll see you in Sovngarde, if they'll even let you in!"

In fury, the Captain lashed out with her sword. She had years of long practice—something Wynter didn't have—but her desire for revenge against the woman who had humiliated her in front of her troops overrode her caution. She let her guard slip, not believing Wynter to be much of a threat, and the younger girl took advantage of those openings, something for which she _had_ been trained.

Furiously, with a hatred matched only by that she felt for the Thalmor, Wynter sliced, blocked and hacked her way through the Captain's defenses. All the rage she felt over the injustices she had suffered at their hands lent strength to her blows, and the Captain realized too late that she was outmatched. The Nord girl might not have had skill, but she had an unnatural talent, and when Wynter's blade slipped through her guard and pierced her armor in the joint between chestplate and arm guard, the Captain knew she was finished. Wynter hauled back with the iron sword and threw everything she had into her last blow, which took the hated Captain's head from her shoulders.

Panting, she stood there for a moment, realizing that Ralof was watching her. The other Imperial soldiers lay dead at his feet.

"Well done, little sister," he said approvingly. "A few less Imperials to poison our country. We'll make a Stormcloak out of you yet!" Wynter chose not to respond to that.

The Captain's armor, cut up as it was, still offered better protection than the Stormcloak armor, so with an apology to Ralof, she changed tunics, boots and bracers for the better equipment, and took the Captain's steel sword and dagger, leaving the iron ones behind.

"You do what you have to do, little sister," Ralof shrugged. "It's not as though you're a real Stormcloak, anyway." She might have been mistaken, but she thought there was a hint of regret in his tone.

They moved quickly through the tower to its lower reaches, hoping to find a way out of Helgen. They stopped only to pick up food, potions and other supplies before moving on. They met up with a handful of Stormcloaks on the way.

In the torture chamber they killed the man responsible for so many Stormcloak deaths and Wynter found a book she couldn't leave behind. She couldn't read, so the title made no sense to her, but the emblem of the dragon on the cover intrigued her, and for reasons she couldn't explain, she stuffed it into the backpack sitting next to it, along with the other things she'd found. Perhaps she'd find a place later to sell it.

The next area was huge, where the dungeons ended and a system of caverns and tunnels began. Imperial soldiers had found their way even here, and a furious skirmish took place, each side determined to wipe out the others. Two of their companions went down, never to move again, but Wynter remembered a spell Adelvard had taught her which shot out a jet of flames from her hands, and she targeted an oil slick under the feet of a small group of Imperial bowmen.

A huge _whoosh_ went up as the oil ignited everything flammable in the vicinity, including the Imperials. Their screams were horrific, but Wynter hardened her heart against it. This was not her war, but they had involved her, and it was either her or them. When it was over, she took one of the long bows and all the arrows she could find.

Ralof found a tunnel which led out of the dungeons and followed an underground stream, away from the city. They hadn't gone far into it when a muffled roar and a crash of stone brought the tunnel down behind them.

"Well, there's no going back that way," Ralof observed. "Let's hope the others find a way out."

At first it was easy going, but soon they encountered enemies of a more natural kind. Frostbite spiders inhabited the first cavern they came to, and the huge arachnids spewed out their terrible poison before closing in for the kill. Wynter used her Flames spell to great effect against the eight-legged monsters. When it was over, she took a few moments to harvest as much of their venom as she could. Applying it to her arrows would give her a bit of an edge against her enemies. Ralof watched her, but shuddered in revulsion.

"I never could stand those things," he commented. "Too many eyes, you know?" He gestured toward a ledge at the back of the cavern. "They might have egg sacs up there, if you're looking for ingredients for potions."

"I wasn't," Wynter shrugged. "But right now I need to salvage anything I can sell."

"Go ahead," Ralof said. "I'll wait." In a few minutes, they were on their way again.

The tunnel continued to twist and turn downward, and from somewhere up ahead, Wynter could hear the sound of rushing water. It must have been part of the same system of streams they crossed earlier. Another cavern opened up, and they crossed that stream over a natural bridge. Nearby, a broken down cart rested, with a few cabbages rotting away in it, as well as a few bottles of mead, which Ralof confiscated with a wry grin. Under it all was a pouch with a small amount of gold.

"Take it," he told her. "My sister Gerdur lives in Riverwood. If we make it back there, she'll help me, so I won't need this."

Wynter pocketed the coins gratefully. She was about to move on when Ralof grabbed her arm and stopped her, crouching low.

"Wait!" he hissed. "See? Up there? A bear!"

Sure enough, a huge, shaggy brown bear was sleeping just off the path. They would have to walk right past it to get out of the cavern and through the tunnel beyond.

"I'd rather not tangle with the bear, if we don't have to," Ralof whispered. "Or you can try your luck with the bow and arrows. We might get the drop on her that way. Whatever you decide, I'll back you up. How good are you at moving quietly?"

Wynter grinned. "Quieter than you, I'll bet," she murmured back.

Ralof chuckled. "Loser buys the mead," he waged, offering his hand. Wynter shook it, then carefully eased down the slope along the left-hand side of the cavern. Moving as quietly as she could, she eased past the huge brown bear slumbering not ten feet away.

Behind her, she heard the rustle of Ralof's chain shirt, and the crunch of stones beneath his feet, and she threw him a wry grin. She knew she'd win that bet! They both froze when the shaggy ursine rose, stretched, yawned and settled down again into another position.

It took a full ten minutes before they were clear enough past her to move at a more normal pace. They hurried to a spot of daylight they saw ahead, Ralof muttering, "That was close! I was really hoping we wouldn't have to fight her!"

"I believe you owe me a round of mead," Wynter chuckled. "I'm going to call you 'Rattle-Shirt' from now on!" Ralof laughed heartily.

When they exited the cavern, they breathed a sigh of relief. It was over! They'd done it! A roar overhead, however, made them crouch and scurry for the bushes. The black dragon, having utterly destroyed Helgen, was headed north, undoubtedly looking for other towns to torch.  
"We'd better split up," Ralof said. "My sister, Gerdur, lives in Riverwood, not far from here. I'm sure she'll help you get to wherever you're going."

"Wait!" said Wynter in disbelief. "That's it? You're leaving me alone?"

Ralof turned, looking confused. "I should try to rejoin Ulfric," he said, uncertainly. "I'm sure he made it out of there. And besides," he continued, "the way you handled yourself in there, you'll be fine."

"And you think your sister is just going to take me in on my word that I know you?" Wynter frowned.

Ralof hesitated. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. "She's pretty suspicious of most people, these days." He laughed contritely. "Alright, little sister, I'll go to Riverwood with you."

They hurried on their way to Riverwood, hoping to get there before the sun set behind the mountains. Along the way, Ralof pointed out the Standing Stones, and told her of their ancient powers and history. Without realizing it, she put her palm against the smooth, carved surface of the Thief Stone, and felt her whole body _thrum _with its power.

Ralof snorted. "Thief, eh? Well, it's never too late to change your ways," he commented before heading down the road again. She had to trot to keep up with his long-legged strides. Very soon he stopped, and pointed out an ancient Nordic ruin perched on the side of a mountain, across the river from them.

"See that ruin over there?" he said. "That's Bleak Falls Barrow. Even as a boy, that place gave me nightmares. I never understood how my sister could live in its shadow."

They made Riverwood, and Ralof headed immediately to the mill, where his sister and brother-in-law worked supplying cut lumber throughout the region. After a hurried discussion behind the mill, with Ralof introducing Wynter as his "savior", Gerdur and her husband kindly invited her into their home.

"But I would like to ask a favor of you," Gerdur said, giving Wynter a penetrating look. "We have no defenses here, no walls to keep out an invading army, much less a dragon. The Jarl at Whiterun must be told. He must send more men here to help defend our town. Will you go to Whiterun and let him know what happened at Helgen?" Her eyes pleaded with Wynter.

They had been kind to her, and Ralof, whether he knew it or not, _had_ saved her life, as much as she had saved his. She felt she owed these good people something for their risk in hiding her from the Imperials. "I'll go," she agreed.

"But not tonight," Gerdur said. "Tonight you'll stay with us. You can leave in the morning. Take anything you need to help you. Within reason, of course," she added, winking. "It's the least we can do."

The next day dawned bright and clear. Wynter took only what she needed for her journey, what she felt Ralof's family could afford to spare. Whiterun was a good four hours away, and when she arrived, there was every chance the Jarl might not even see her, let alone listen to what she said. Hod, Gerdur's husband, had told her the night before that the Jarl was balancing on the fence between supporting the Stormcloaks or remaining loyal to the Empire, and the entire country was deadlocked, holding its breath to see what might happen next. Civil war was imminent, he said, and only the gods knew how the dragon figured into all of it.

None of that mattered to Wynter. She had a message to deliver, and that's what she intended to do. Once that duty was dispatched, she would make her way to Ivarstead, where Adelvard had told her he'd found her, a newborn lying on the road next to her dead mother. She had her amulet; maybe someone would recognize it and give her some clue to her past. After all, this business with Jarls and civil wars and dragons had nothing to do with her.


	2. Chapter 1: Whiterun

**Wynter's Tale**

_Whiterun_

_(Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the world of Skyrim, or any of the characters created by Bethesda which populate that world. My story follows the main quest line, but with the personal insights my character, Wynter, might have as told from her point of view. Some details of gameplay have been reworked to make a better story, and some dialogue lifted to give the reader a sense of familiarity. I give kudos to Bethesda for making such an engaging and inspiring game.)_

The city of Whiterun was large, but not nearly as large as the Imperial City in Cyrodiil. Its walls were old, but not nearly as well maintained. Wynter trudged up the hill toward the gates, glad to be nearing the end of her obligations to Ralof and his family. They had been more than kind, and she really didn't mind helping them out by delivering a message to the Jarl of Whiterun—assuming she could get in to see him—but she needed to get back to her original plan of journeying to Winterhold, as the Woman had told her to do months ago.

That mysterious Woman from her dreams; it was soon after Adelvard's death, when she was barely a woman herself, that the Woman had come to her. She never said who she was, never showed herself. She was only ever a Voice in Wynter's mind: part of her, yet separate from herself. Still, there was something in the Voice so comforting, so reassuring, that Wynter felt she should _know_ who the Woman was.

She thought at first that it might have been Kynareth speaking to her, or perhaps Dibella or Mara, but when asked, the Woman denied being any of the goddesses of Skyrim, or any of the Daedric Princes such as Azura, Meridia, or Nocturnal.

"I'm someone who can help you tread this path you're on," the Woman told her. "Someone who can help you figure out what you can do next."

For the next few years, Wynter had trusted and followed the Woman's advice. Though her contact with the unknown figure was only while sleeping, she had been guided to an abandoned chest outside the Imperial City—a forgotten cache of loot which gave her the coin she needed to survive. With the Woman's help, she found sanctuary in an empty attic, accessed only through a hole in the roof of the building, and was able to stay there for two years unmolested. When the building was slated to be torn down, the Woman gave her advanced warning so she could find another place to hide, this time in a forgotten tunnel under the City.

Whenever her supply of coin ran low, Wynter supplemented it by picking pockets and stealing small items to sell. Small, limber and agile, she was often able to escape notice, and when she was spotted she was fast enough to outrun the guards encumbered by their armor. She would slip into the tunnels unseen and disappear, hiding until the furor settled.

Not long ago she'd had another visitation.

_"You must go to Skyrim and seek out the Wizard's College in Winterhold,"_ the Woman told her.

"I was planning to go to Skyrim," Wynter admitted, "but I want to go to Ivarstead, and find out what my amulet means."

_"Winterhold is more important,"_ the Woman insisted. _"You have a talent for magic, and it needs to be trained. They can help you there."_ The Woman's presence faded, and Wynter woke up. She gathered together what few possessions she had, and left the Imperial City for good, heading to Skyrim.

That had been two months ago. In that time, she'd been caught up in an ambush the Imperials had set for Ulfric Stormcloak and his followers, stripped of all her possessions—except the amulet, which she had sewed into the lining of her tunic—and hauled off to an Imperial prison camp to be beaten and tortured by the Thalmor of the Aldmeri Dominion.

Wynter was a Nord by birth, so Adelvard had told her, and the White-Gold Concordat signed by the Empire to end the Great War specifically banned the worship of the hero-god of the Nords, Talos. But Wynter stubbornly refused to let anyone tell her who she could and could not worship, and not two days ago she had ended up on a cart with Ulfric and two others, bound for Helgen and execution.

Then Alduin had attacked, and gave her the opportunity to escape.

Now here she was, approaching the gates of Whiterun to keep a promise. Wynter seldom made promises, because she knew how easily they could be broken. She tried to make sure she kept every one she made.

"Hold there!" the guard at the gate called out. "The city is closed until further notice, due to reports of dragon attacks."

Wynter frowned. "Well, I've got news of the attack on Helgen, if your Jarl wants to hear it," she said.

Immediately the other woman changed her attitude. "You have news? Yes, of course! Jarl Balgruuf will want to know right away. You'll find him at Dragonsreach. Just follow the road up the hill and keep climbing." She opened the gate and allowed Wynter to pass through.

Whiterun was bustling. People filled the streets and most of the conversations she overheard were about the attack on Helgen. Wynter didn't want to think about Helgen; the horrors of that day were still too raw and fresh in her mind. The people of Whiterun had no idea what she'd been through, and she wanted to keep it that way. They felt safe behind their walls, with their Jarl and the city guard to protect them. But Helgen had had the Imperial army bunkered there, and it hadn't stopped the dragon from routing them.

"We'll pay whatever it takes," a man was saying to the blacksmith as she passed by. "But we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers."

"I can't possibly fill an order of that size on my own!" the woman, a Redguard by the look of her, protested. "Why don't you swallow that stubborn pride of your and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?" she continued. "His Skyforge steel is much better than mine, anyway."

"Go to the Gray-Manes?" the man spat. "Ha! I'd sooner bend knee to Ulfric Stormcloak himself! Besides, the Gray-Manes would never make steel for the Legion."

"Have it your way," the smith sighed in resignation. "I'll take the job, but don't expect a miracle." The man nodded curtly and left.

So, there was little love for the leader of the rebellion here in Whiterun, Wynter realized. The city seemed to be divided in its loyalties. Riding the fence was a difficult and dangerous game to play. One side or the other would eventually get the upper hand, and the Jarl would have to make a decision soon on exactly where his loyalties lay.

"Excuse me," she began, approaching the blacksmith.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked. "I'm Adrianne Avenicci. I own Warmaiden's." She gestured to her shop. "I've got some good pieces out here, if you're looking to buy. There's more inside."

"No, not right now," Wynter declined. "I was wondering what you could tell me about Whiterun?"

"Hmph, plenty," Adrianne said helpfully. "I'd say we're prosperous enough. Most folk don't go hungry, if they're willing to work hard. The city's ruled by the Jarl, up in Dragonsreach. That's the fortress, there—" she pointed. "Up on the tall hill."

Wynter turned to look at the impressive fortification rising above the rooftops of the surrounding buildings.

"So that's where I have to go," Wynter mused. At the blacksmith's curious look, she admitted, "I have to deliver a message to the Jarl."

"Then you'd best head up there now," Adrianne told her. "From what I've heard, the Jarl isn't the most patient of men."

"I will," Wynter said, "but could I ask you: do you work the forge _all day_?" She'd always wanted to learn how to smith, but felt she wasn't strong enough. Seeing Adrianne now was beginning to change her mind. There didn't seem to be anything exceptional about the woman, yet the armor and weapons lying about for sale all seemed to be of skilled craftsmanship.

"Aye, that I do," Adrianne said proudly. "I've got to, if I hope to be as good as Eorlund Gray-Mane someday. In fact, I just finished my best piece of work. It's a sword I made for the Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater." She went over to the worktable and brought the sword back to show Wynter, who gasped in awe.

"It's beautiful!" she breathed, and Adrianne basked in the compliment. "May I?" Wynter asked.

"By all means," the smith invited. Wynter took the sword and stepped out into the yard, giving it a few practice swings. She hadn't held a sword this finely-balanced in a long time. The Imperial sword she had been using was fair enough, but this—this was exquisite. She launched into the attack routine Adelvard had taught her years ago, one movement flowing to the next. Attack, block, cut, parry, slash. After a moment, she returned to the Redguard woman and reluctantly handed back the sword.

"It's a well-made blade," Wynter said, breathing hard.

"You've got some skill," Adrianne noted. "Listen, I know it's a lot to ask of a complete stranger, but—well," she hesitated. "I made this as a gift for the Jarl. It's a surprise, but I don't even know if he'll accept it."

"Why wouldn't he?" Wynter smiled. "It's a fine sword."

"Thank you," Adrianne smiled back. "Could you, since you're going there anyway, take this sword to my father, Proventus Avenicci? He's the Steward at Dragonsreach. He'll know the right time to present it to the Jarl Balgruuf."

It really wasn't so much to ask, and she was headed that way anyway. Wynter willingly accepted the sword from a grateful Adrianne and left the smithy, after first negotiating a trade of the Imperial armor she'd been wearing for better, non-allied leathers. She didn't want anyone to think she had anything to do with the Empire. There wasn't anything she could do about her sword, yet. The Imperial blade was still better than the iron weapons Adrianne had, and she couldn't afford better at the moment.

Feeling much more comfortable in the anonymous leather armor, Wynter headed up the hill to deliver her message. Along the way she took notice of the general mercantile, an apothecary and an inn, situated around a central open-air market.

The stairs seemed interminable, and Wynter was glad when she finally reached the top and stood before Dragonsreach, the hall of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun Hold. It was grand, though not nearly so fine as the palace in the Imperial City. She crossed the causeway and made her way inside.

The vast, open meadhall echoed with quiet voices and shuffling sounds of people going about their daily lives. More stairs greeted her and she ascended to see a large, long firepit between her and the throne of Jarl Balgruuf. Before she could approach, however, a Dunmer woman clad in armor called her to a halt.

"Hold!" she ordered sharply. "The Jarl is not receiving visitors. State your business."

"I came to deliver a request from Riverwood," Wynter answered, a bit put-out by the woman's stand-offish manner. "A dragon has attacked Helgen and they beg the Jarl to send reinforcements."

"So that's why the guards let you in," the Dunmer mused. "Very well, you may approach, but keep a respectful distance between yourself and Jarl Balgruuf, understood?"

Wynter nodded and stepped closer to the dais where the Jarl of Whiterun waited.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded impatiently. Wynter took a closer look at the man who ruled Whiterun Hold. Though he appeared to be in his forties, he was still strong and well-muscled under his sleeveless tunic and fur cape. Blonde, like most Nords, Balgruuf had a neatly-trimmed short beard and piercing brown eyes. His long, tapered hands looked as though they could easily wield a two-handed sword with only one. Those hands now drummed restlessly on the arms of his throne, and Wynter hastily delivered her message.

"So," drawled the Jarl, "you were at Helgen? You saw this dragon?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, "Yes, I had a fine view while the Imperials tried to cut off my head," but instead she merely replied. "Yes, my lord. It attacked Helgen, then flew away. I think it was heading north."

At this, several people standing there began speaking at once, trying to agree what to do next. Proventus Avenicci, the Jarl's Steward and Adrianne's father, advocated strongly that they must wait; Irileth, the Dunmer woman who was the Jarl's Housecarl, insisted they send troops to Riverwood immediately. Proventus was horrified, stating that the Jarl of Falkreath would view it as an act of aggression. The third person, a man named Hrongar, whom she learned was Jarl Balgruuf's younger brother and advisor, insisted they take the battle to the Stormcloaks, certain it was they who had sent the dragon. Wynter thought the man a fool. The Stormcloaks she'd seen at Helgen were killed just as indiscriminately by the dragon as the Imperial soldiers.

"Enough!" the Jarl called at last, while Wynter stood by, uncertain if she should leave or stay. "Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

The Housecarl snapped to attention. "Yes, my Jarl!" She bowed and excused herself.

Avenicci attempted once more to sway the Jarl with caution. "We should not—" he began, but Balgruuf cut him off.

"I'll not stand by idly while a dragon burns my Hold and slaughters my people!" he thundered.

Subdued, Avenicci said stiffly, "If you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties."

"That would be best," Jarl Balgruuf agreed. He seemed to notice Wynter standing quietly by and forced a smile to his lips. "Well done. You sought me out on your own initiative," he said. "You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it. Here," he continued, reaching down next to his throne. He picked up a steel shield and handed it to her. Wynter accepted it awkwardly, never having used a shield in her life. "Take this as my thanks for your effort.

"There is another thing you could do for me," the Jarl went on. "Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps. Come, let's go find Farengar, by court wizard. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons and…rumors of dragons."

Wynter wondered how the Jarl could possibly know what "particular talents" she might have. The man didn't even know her. All she wanted to do was leave and be on her way. Instead, she found herself following him to an antechamber to one side of the meadhall, which turned out to be the private quarters of the court wizard, a rather irritating man named Farengar Secret-Fire. Very soon she learned he needed assistance in finding a stone tablet called a Dragonstone in an ancient Nord ruin known as Bleak Falls Barrow—the same ruin Ralof had pointed out to her on their way out of Helgen.

It wasn't really possible to refuse; Balgruuf and Farengar had been most insistent, and the coin the Jarl offered was tempting, so she had agreed. What was the worst that could happen? She made sure, before she left however, to deliver Adrianne's sword to her father. He received it indulgently and promised to present it to Jarl Balgruuf at a more opportune moment.

Outside Bleak Falls Barrow she'd encountered a covey of bandits who had decided to make the place their base camp. Stealth had been her key to taking them out, one by one. They really hadn't presented much of a challenge. Once inside, however, she soon found things to be quite different. The Barrow was an ancient burial vault, full of ancient dead Nords. The only problem was that they hadn't _stayed_ dead. Her childhood had been filled with Adelvard's tales of horror about the draugr that dwelled in the deepest tombs, wandering the tunnels and corridors, brutally killing any adventurer that wandered in.

She thrilled at the stories as a child, but life in the bandit stronghold had made her tough, and she didn't really believe her old mentor's tales. Bleak Falls Barrow proved just how wrong she'd been to discount his stories. It had been a grueling trek, and one that she considered giving up on, but Wynter didn't give up easily, and was determined not to let a crypt full of old bones keep her from accomplishing her task.

After fighting her way through more undead than she cared to think about, and slipping her way past the tricks and traps of the tomb, Wynter came at last to the final chamber, a large cavern with a raised area of stone in the center backed by a large curving wall. A strange chanting noise filled the air that seemed to come from that wall, and Wynter felt herself drawn to it. Strange glyphs covered its smooth, curved surface—glyphs that looked almost like claw marks.

Ignoring everything else, she was pulled irresistibly closer; one set of markings seemed to glow as tendrils of light and energy reached out to her. Mesmerized, she let the energy flow into her, and deep within, something seemed to unlock. The word _fus_ echoed in her mind, but she didn't know what it meant, except it had something to do with the glyphs on the wall.

A loud crack behind her made her whirl around. A sarcophagus she hadn't noticed before burst open, and the biggest, beefiest draugr she'd yet seen rose from it. It turned to face her, pinpoint blue lights glowing where its eyes should have been. It opened its mouth.

_"FUS!"_ it Shouted at her, and she was literally knocked backwards from the force of it. Quickly regaining her feet, she realized that was the word in her mind. Well, two could play at that game.

"Fus!" she shouted back, but nothing happened, and the draugr raised its war axe and came at her.

"Crap!" Wynter muttered. Why hadn't it worked? It was the same word. What had the draugr done differently? There was no time to figure it out now. She parried its attack with her Imperial sword and slashed with her steel dagger. She hit it, but it didn't seem to have much effect.

Again the draugr attacked, and this time it caught her in the side. The armor she wore took some of the damage, but searing pain sliced through her as the blade bit deep. She swung with both sword and dagger this time, one after the other, and was satisfied to see both make contact. The draugr staggered backward long enough for her to quickly fire off a healing spell before resuming her attack.

The draugr laughed evilly, coming at her with the axe raised for a killing blow. She ducked under the blow at the last possible moment, swiftly twisting around behind the undead and striking out with both blades again. Staggered again, but not down, the creature turned and shouted at her again.

_"FUS!"_

Once again, she felt herself being flung backwards. Damn! She had to figure out how it did that!

As she tried to get to her feet, the undead swung its axe and this time sliced open her right arm. Pain such as she had seldom felt flared down her limb before it went numb. The Imperial sword clattered to the stone floor.

The draugr moved in for the kill, but Wynter called up every last ounce of energy she had and channeled it into a jet of flame, which shot forth from her left hand. Keeping it up and backing away out of reach of the deadly war axe, she saw the draugr stumble, weaken and finally collapse to the ground in a heap. The stench of decayed, charred flesh made her want to vomit, and she backed away again, taking several deep breaths upwind of the remains.

The pain returning to her arm reminded Wynter of her injury. Blood was dripping down her fingers in a warm, sticky trail, and she fumbled around in her backpack for a healing potion, downing it quickly. Within minutes she felt much better as the blood staunched, and she carefully bound up her arm with some linen wrap she found on a nearby table, torn into strips. With any luck, there might not be very much scarring, not that it mattered.

Turning her attention to a large chest sitting next to the sarcophagus, Wynter checked it carefully for any signs of trapping and opened it. Coins, a few small gems and some weapons and armor made a nice haul, for all the trouble she'd gone through. She returned to the smoking heap that had been the draugr, and poked through the remains. There it was! The thing she'd been sent here to find in the first place: the Dragonstone! She packed it carefully away in the bottom of her rucksack, retrieved her sword, and made her way over to a tunnel leading out of the cavern.

The trip back to Whiterun was uneventful. Wynter stopped off in Riverwood to return a golden dragon claw she'd found in the Barrow to Lucan Valerius at the Riverwood Trader, who had asked her to retrieve it for him. The claw had proven useful for getting into the deepest part of the Barrow, but she had no further need of it, and no place to keep it. It was late in the day, so she stayed with Gerdur and Hod before setting out in the morning for the capital of Whiterun Hold.

Farengar was busy when she returned, talking with a woman in a hooded cloak over leather armor.

"You see?" he was saying as Wynter entered. "The terminology is clearly First Era or even earlier. I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text, perhaps dating to just after the Dragon War. If so, I could use this to cross-reference the names with other later texts."

"Good," the woman approved. "I'm glad you're making progress. My employers are anxious to have some tangible answers."

"Oh, have no fear," Farengar assured her. "The Jarl himself has finally taken an interest, so I'm now able to devote most of my time to this research."

"Time is running, Farengar, don't forget," she warned. "This isn't some theoretical question. Dragons _have_ come back."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry," the wizard said dismissively. "Although the chance to see a living dragon up close would be tremendously valuable... Now, let me show you something else I found... very intriguing... I think your employers may be interested as well..."

At this point the woman noticed Wynter, standing quietly and not-so-patiently nearby. She cleared her throat. "A-hem. You have a visitor."

The mage looked up and blinked, seeming to see Wynter for the first time. "Hmm? Ah, yes, the Jarl's protégé! Back from Bleak Falls Barrow? You didn't die, it seems."

"No," Wynter said acidly. "I didn't." She held out the stone tablet.

"Ah! The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow!" Farengar said delightedly, oblivious to her sarcasm. "Seems you're a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way. My... associate here will be pleased to see your handiwork. She discovered its location, by means she has so far declined to share with me." He turned his attention back to the older woman.

"So your information was correct after all. And we have our friend here to thank for recovering it for us."

The woman shot Wynter a look of approval. "You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and got that? Nice work!" She turned back to Farengar and said, "Just send me a copy when you've deciphered it." She turned her attention back to the book she was studying.

Loud voices and the sounds of commotion arose in the meadhall outside Farengar's door. Wynter turned to see several people rushing around, and not a moment later, Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl, Irileth rushed in.

"Farengar, you're to come at once! A dragon has been sighted near the Western Watchtower." She turned to Wynter, giving the young Nord woman a once-over with her eyes. "You'd better come, too." She left and headed for the stairs leading to the upper hall and the Jarl's personal quarters.

"A dragon!" the mage exclaimed. "This is exciting!" He didn't seem to notice, though Wynter did, that the mysterious woman had run out of the room almost as soon as Irileth had delivered her message.

Wynter followed Farengar up the stairs to the antechamber above the main hall. Jarl Balgruuf was questioning one of his guards.

"So, Irileth tells me you came from the western watchtower?"

Irileth spoke up, encouraging the man. "Tell him what you told me, about the dragon."

The man's face was hidden behind his helmet, but Wynter could tell he was nervous in the presence of his Jarl, and more likely unnerved by what he'd seen. "Uh... that's right. We saw it coming from the south. It was fast... faster than anything I've ever seen."

"What did it do?" Balgruuf demanded. "Is it attacking the watchtower?"

"No, my lord," said the young man. "It was just circling overhead when I left. I never ran so fast in my life... I thought it would come after me for sure."

Balgruuf nodded approvingly. "Good work, son. We'll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest. You've earned it. Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

The Dunmer woman straightened, if that was possible, and replied, "I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate."

"Good," said the Jarl with a worried frown. "Don't fail me."

He beckoned Wynter to come forward. She approached with the same apprehension as the young guard must have felt. She had a sinking feeling in her gut that she knew what he was going to say. He didn't disappoint her.

"There's no time to stand on ceremony, my friend. I need your help again."

Wynter heard herself talking, but it seemed as though it was someone else using her mouth.

"How can I serve you, my Jarl?"

"I want you to go with Irileth and help her fight this Dragon," he said heavily. "You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

Surviving_ a dragon attack,_ her mind screamed. _Not _fighting _the damned things! _But she said nothing as the Jarl continued to speak.

"But I haven't forgotten the service you did for me in retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. As a token of my esteem, I have instructed my Steward, Avenicci, that you are now permitted to purchase property in the city." He smiled as he picked up a large war axe from the table next to him.

"And please accept this gift from my personal armory," he said, presenting it to her. She took it numbly. It was heavy—_very_ heavy. Wynter knew it was unlikely she would ever use it. Still, she mustered a muttered "thank you," and turned to follow Irileth.

Farengar spoke then, and Wynter had quite forgotten he was there. He was far less irritating when he wasn't talking.

"I should come along," he volunteered. "I would very much like to see this dragon."

Wynter almost gaped. His naiveté astounded her. Did he even realize what he was talking about? The dragon had _leveled_ Helgen and reduced it to a smoking hole in the ground! She had witnessed, first-hand, scores of people being burned alive. Their screams still woke her at night, gasping for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She was desperately trying to _forget_ what she'd been through, and this milk-drinking mage wanted to see one up close? The man was obviously stark raving mad!

The Jarl's next words quite possibly saved the wizard's life, though he would never know it.

"No," Balgruuf said. "I can't afford to risk both of you. I need you here working on ways to defend the city against these dragons."

Farengar was clearly disappointed, but he merely said, "As you command."

The Jarl turned back to his Housecarl. "One last thing, Irileth," he said. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

_I could tell you,_ Wynter thought, but she doubted he would truly believe her.

"Don't worry, my lord," Irileth promised. "I'm the very soul of caution." She left, then, heading back down the stairs, Farengar reluctantly trailing behind her. Wynter hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to thank the Jarl for his kindness and beg off, but something in her wouldn't let her.

Whiterun might be a more well-fortified town than Helgen, but it still had little defense against a dragon that could rain fire down from above. She might not be able to wield an axe, but she _could_ serve up jets of ice and target the beast with some of her precious steel arrows she'd found in the Barrow. Part of her wanted to run screaming and find a place to hide, but it was the smaller part. The larger part wanted to make sure another Helgen wouldn't happen here. If this was the only way she could repay the few kindnesses that had been shown to her since she arrived in Skyrim, then so be it.

She hurried after Irileth before she could change her mind.

The Western Watchtower was really the remnants of a ruined tower built long ago, situated about a mile or so away from the city of Whiterun. All was quiet as they approached, and there was no sign of the huge black dragon Wynter had seen in Helgen.

"Spread out," Irileth informed her and the half-dozen Whiterun guards that had been gathered. The men and women were on edge, nervously watching the sky. "We need to know what we're dealing with here," the Housecarl continued. "Look around for clues."

Wynter made her way over to the tower itself, which leaned drunkenly by the side of the road. A stone ramp led up to the open doorway, and she carefully picked her way up the broken cobbles to have a look inside.

"No!" a voice shouted, and a man in what was left of Whiterun armor staggered out. "It's still out there!" he babbled. "It got Sven and Jorgen before we knew what was happening!"

"Where is it now?" Irileth demanded, but one of the other guards at the foot of the ramp cried out.

"There! Look there!"

"Oh, gods," the injured guard moaned. "It's coming back!"

"Courage, men!" Irileth called. "Make every shot count!"

Wynter readied herself with Frostbite spells in each hand. If the monster came anywhere close to her, it was going to get a double-shot of ice up the tailpipe.

A roar drew their attention to the southern side of the tower, and a large, bronze-colored dragon swooped down low, hovered in mid-air and breathed out a long trail of fire upon anything underneath it.

_That isn't right!_ Wynter thought, perplexed. _It should be black, not bronze! _Realization dawned swiftly. _This is a different dragon!_

All other thoughts had to be set aside, however, as the dragon whirled around in mid-air and came back for another attack. It settled on the ground momentarily behind a broken wall, and before she could think, Wynter launched herself off the ramp and ran up the broken wall. A partially collapsed tower left a larger pile of rubble at the top, in front of her, which provided cover from the blast of fire the dragon leveled at her.

Cupping both hands together, Wynter sent the energy out into a devastating blast of ice which hit the dragon full in the face. Roaring its rage, the beast lumbered up into the air, but not before Wynter sent another blast of ice after it, hitting it in the gut.

All around her men and women were firing arrows, and Irileth was shooting individual spikes of ice at the creature. The dragon was weakening, but still deadly. Another strafing run of fire erupted from its maw as it wheeled overhead. Wynter took cover behind the wall but still felt her flesh singe. She heard the screams of the guards who hadn't made it to safety, and squeezed her eyes shut in horror.

_No!_ she thought. _This isn't Helgen, it's Whiterun. And it's not going to happen here!_

Once again the dragon landed at the end of the broken wall, snapping out with it wickedly curved teeth, and lashing out with its heavy, club-like tail. Wynter leaped back to her vantage point behind the ridge of stone and sent another long blast of ice at the creature.

Convulsing this time, the dragon gave a long roar that sounded like _"Dovahkiin, NOOOOOO!"_ before it writhed, jerked and finally collapsed on the ground. A cheer went up from the Whiterun guards as it died.

And then a curious thing happened. Tendrils of energy spewed forth from its carcass, reaching out towards Wynter, enveloping her, penetrating her. The dragon's body became suffused with flames that didn't burn, but consumed the flesh from its bones. She was transfixed, unable to move, and as the energy absorbed itself into her, she suddenly _knew._

_ Fus: _the word she had learned from the wall at Bleak Falls Barrow. It meant _force. _The dragon, Mirmulnir—she knew its name now—had a deep understanding of the word; deeper than any human could comprehend.

"By the gods!" exclaimed one of the guards. Hrolgin, she'd heard him called earlier. "You took its very soul! You must be Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn?" Wynter asked, dazed. "What does that mean?"

"It an ancient tale of the Nords," said another guard dismissively. Clearly, he didn't believe in ancient tales.

"That's right," affirmed another. "The Dragonborn can take the soul of a dragon and use the ancient power of the Shouts."

"Can you do it?" Hrolgin asked her. "Can you use the Shout? Try it now!"

She really didn't want to make a spectacle of herself, but Wynter couldn't deny she was curious. Something had happened when the energy entered her. Knowledge and understanding of the word _fus_ had become suddenly clear, and she raised her head to the sky.

_"FUS!" _She Shouted with all her might. A shock wave erupted from her mouth, and Wynter felt something click into place inside her mind. _This_ was what the draugr had Shouted at her, and _this_ was how he'd done it. She gave a private smile of satisfaction.

"It's true then," Hrolgin said reverently. "You _are_ Dragonborn!"

"What do you think, Housecarl?" one of the others asked Irileth.

"I think you'd all be much better off concentrating on the job at hand rather than go along with a lot of foolish nonsense," she scowled.

"That's because you don't understand, Housecarl," said Hrolgin. "You ain't a Nord."

"I've lived in Skyrim most of my life," she protested indignantly. "I've been all over and fought hundreds of battles even before you were born. I believe in what I can see, and what I see here is a dead dragon. _That's_ something I understand." She turned to Wynter. "You'd better head back to Whiterun and let Jarl Balgruuf know what happened here." She sniffed. "Try to keep your report to the facts as we know them, will you?"

Wynter inclined her head slightly. "Yes, Housecarl," she responded. Something made her search the remains of the dragon's body; without knowing why, she gathered the few bones and scales she was able to loosen from the carcass before taking off at a trot for the city. She wasn't sure what she would do with them, but they might have some value if she could sell them. The sun was already lowering in the west by the time she reached the stables.

Suddenly the sky above reverberated with a Voice so loud it deafened her momentarily. The very ground shook, and she struggled to keep on her feet.

_"DO-VAH-KIIN!"_

The horses whinnied and snorted in panic in their stable, and Wynter waited to see if the Voice would repeat. It did not. But the word disturbed her. She'd heard it once before, long ago, in a different time and place.

_Six years previous:_

Adelvard didn't like Grognak, but he wasn't about to gainsay the orc Chief. Their little band of thieves had grown under the brute's guidance, that much could not be denied. They had a stronghold in the caves that could not be penetrated, plenty of food, drink and gold, and his ward Wynter was at least safer here than she would have been in the Imperial City.

He would have to do something about the child soon, he knew. Raising her in the gang hadn't been the best choice, but it gave him access to resources he wouldn't have had otherwise. From the squalling infant he'd found soon after her birth, she had grown into a lanky, coltish girl, all limbs and elbows, with stringy white-blonde hair and clear blue-gray eyes. He'd kept her hair cut short because it was easier to keep the lice out of it that way, and because it made others often mistake her for a boy, which was as good a disguise as any.

Lately, however, parts of her were developing in a most un-boyish manner, and several of the more undesirable members of their group were starting to take notice. Grognak's latest orders couldn't have come at a worse time, Adelvard thought morosely.

"Can't you get Esper or Dilean to do this job" he'd argued, querulously. It was dangerous to argue with Grognak, but Adelvard felt he was old enough to get away with it.

"They're busy," Grognak had grunted. "You got other plans I should know about?" There was a dangerous quality to the question. Adelvard backed down.

"No, of course not, Chief," he muttered. "I just don't know that this job is worth the effort."

"You're kidding, right?" Grognak snorted. "Biggest heist we've ever pulled, and you don't think it's worth it? Since when do you do the thinking around here?"

"I wasn't doing any thinking, Chief," Adelvard protested.

"Damn right you're not," the orc muttered. "You'll do this, old man, and you'll do it right, or you can find another gang."

_The pleasure would be all mine,_ Adelvard thought sarcastically, but he kept that thought to himself.

Later he approached Santine. The dusky Dunmer woman owed him a favor, and he decided to call it in.

"Santine," he began without preamble, "Grognak's sending me out on a job. Watch Wynter for me?"

"Grognak's sending _you?_" Santine blinked in surprise. "I thought you were chief cook and bottle washer around here."

"I thought so, too," Adelvard grumbled. "But he said I needed to start pulling my weight around here. As if I haven't done that very thing the last ten or twelve years."

"Almost thirteen," Santine said absently. "I suppose I can keep an eye on her, if I'm not sent out myself."

"Thanks," Adelvard said. He still didn't like leaving his ward behind, but he didn't have much choice. She'd learned to steal and pick pockets, it was true, but a job of this nature was beyond her skills, and she would only get in the way, if she didn't give them both away in the process.

"When will you be back?" Wynter asked that evening, as he gathered together the few supplies he would need.

"I'm not sure," her guardian replied. "Two, three days at the most, I guess. Santine will look after you if you need anything."

"I can take care of myself," the child retorted, confidently. "Haven't you taught me everything you know?"

Adelvard chuckled. "No," he said, carefully and succinctly. "I haven't. Not yet. So don't get over confident." Gods, he didn't think it would happen, and it had come on him gradually, but at some point in the last twelve years he had finally admitted to himself that he loved that little girl as much as if she'd been his own daughter.

Had it really been that long since he'd found her, newborn and screaming her defiance to the cold, hard world at the top of her lungs? He'd come upon the caravan on the road to Ivarstead in Skyrim only a few hours after it had been attacked and ransacked by a band of brigands. The baby lay next to her dead mother, who had apparently died in childbirth, if not from the injuries she'd received in the attack.

A sudden gleam of light caught his eye, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose as Adelvard saw the ghost.

"Divines spare me!" he quavered, hiding his face in his hands. "Arkay take you! Don't hurt me!"

_"Please don't be frightened," _the spirit said. Adelvard uncovered his eyes. The ghost was the soul of the dead woman at his feet. _"I need your help. Please,"_ she begged.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, still wanting to run.

_"My baby," _the woman gestured at the squalling infant._ "Please take her with you. Give her a chance to live."_

"What?" the old man spluttered. "I'm no wet-nurse! How can I take care of a baby?"

_"She will die if you don't help her," _the woman pleaded. _"You're a good man, I can sense it."_

"You don't know anything about me," Adelvard protested. "Or you'd know I'm the last person to ask to raise a child."

_"Then at least take her to the orphanage in Riften,"_ the mother compromised. _"At least there she'll have a chance to grow up."_

"Fine,"Adelvard agreed. "I'll take her to Riften, but that's it."

_"Take the amulet from around my neck, there," _the woman said, pointing to her body. _"Keep it safe and give it to them at the orphanage to hold for her. It's all I have to give her now."_

"And what makes you think I won't just turn around and sell it," the old rogue asked, slyly.

_"Because whatever else you may be, I know you're an honorable man," _the woman said simply.

Adelvard stared at her, then hung his head and sighed. "Damn," was all he said.

Now he looked on fondly as the girl who had been the babe packed his rucksack for him. She babbled on about what they could buy with their share of the take. Eventually, all was ready and he patted her head.

"Listen to Santine," he told her. "Do what she tells you and don't stay up late."

"No promises," Wynter answered pertly, and Adelvard chuckled.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised. As he turned to leave he saw Grognak watching from across the cavern. A strong feeling of unease came over him, but he wasn't sure what he feared, besides the burly orc. Maybe the Chief was just making sure he actually kept his promise and left.

Three days later he returned, and his world changed forever. Wynter lay in her cot, battered and beaten, refusing to move or eat. Blood caked her thighs and stained her clothing. The child's face had not been injured, but she was covered in bruises and bite marks everyplace else on her body, including her budding breasts. She stared, dry-eyed and apathetic, at Adelvard as he came in.

"Wynter!" he cried in horror, dropping everything at his feet. "By the Nine, what's happened to you?" He rushed to her side.

She turned away to face the wall and curled into a fetal position.

"Where's Santine?" he asked. A shrug was his only answer.

Enraged, Adelvard left their quarters and went looking for the Dunmer thief, only to learn she'd been sent out the same day as he and hadn't returned yet. He asked several people, sitting around a firepit, what had happened to his ward while he was gone. No one would look him directly in the eyes, but Arnica, a Bosmer woman with skills in alchemy told him, "Chief asked for her the night you left. Kept her until this morning."

"And you didn't stop him?" Adelvard demanded.

"Do I look stupid?" Arnica countered. "Grognak always gets what he wants. Said he was going to sell her body to anyone with the right coin, but he was going to be the first."

_"She's a child!" _Adelvard raged.

"Not anymore," sneered Jorvis. "Maybe now the Chief's tired of her the rest of us will get a chance." There was ugly laughter around the fire at that.

Adelvard balled his fists, and for a moment the tension was thick as the rest waited to see what he would do. But he slumped and unclenched his hands. They were too many, and he was too old. And the damage had been done. Wynter was no longer safe here. He had failed her dead mother's request to keep her safe. Why hadn't he taken her to the orphanage? He knew the answer: as hard as he had tried to resist, he couldn't help but become enthralled by the tiny baby, and he wanted a chance to raise her as he might have raised a child of his own.

Returning to the quarters he shared with his ward, Adelvard wrapped Wynter up in a thick, woolen blanket and carried her outside. He put her on one of the group's horses and mounted behind her. He knew he was being watched, but he didn't care. Wynter needed help, and he was going to make sure she received it.

The Khajiit caravan had been camped a mile away for the better part of two days, and they were on the verge of pulling up stakes and moving on when Adelvard arrived with Wynter. He carried her into the tent of M'rahni, an old gypsy he'd known for many years. He explained what had been done to his ward.

"Please help her, M'rahni," he said. "I know you can. She won't respond to anything, and she might need moon tea. I'll pay you whatever you ask, just bring her back to me."

"M-m-m," the Khajiit purred. "You are getting soft, Adelvard," M'rahni scolded. "There was a time you didn't care what happened to others."

"I still don't, much," Adelvard snapped. "Are you going to help her or not?"

"Patience," the gypsy cat murmured. "Let's have a look at her." But even the old Khajiit's composure was shaken when she saw Wynter's injuries. "By the Nine!" she swore. "Who did this to her?"

"Never you mind," Adelvard said. "I'll take care of that myself. Just help her, please."

M'rahni led Adelvard, with Wynter in his arms, to a curtained-off area at the rear of her massive tent. Braziers lent warmth here, as the Khajiit were a race from a more tropical clime. A large tub filled with warm water was quickly set up, and M'rahni and her daughter M'reyda carefully bathed Wynter and disposed of her soiled clothing. She was given a calming tea to drink and wrapped in light-weight silk smallclothes, a soft tunic of wool with suede trousers and soft leather boots. Wynter drank the tea and felt it revive her, but she still refused to speak.

"It will take time," M'rahni said, as M'reyda brought her a small satchel. The younger Khajiit withdrew, after throwing a look of pity after the Nord girl.

"Can you give her some moon tea?" Adelvard insisted. "She's just a child herself, really, and I'm not sure if she's had her first blood or not."

"Quiet, old fool," M'rahni hissed. "Let me concentrate. There is something about this one—" Her voice trailed off and her eyes lost focus as she threw herbs onto a brazier. Smoke filled the small chamber and the Khajiit breathed it in deeply.

Adelvard waited as patiently as he could, never taking his eyes off the old gypsy.

"Yes-s-s," the cat growled at last, her eyes closed. "I see it now. Moon tea is unnecessary. This one is _dovahkiin_," she announced. "She cannot get with child—_ever!_"

Relief washed over the old rogue. That, at least, was one less thing he needed to worry about. But what did M'rahni mean, _dovhakiin_? He asked her.

The old gypsy cat opened her eyes and blinked slowly at him. "I can tell you no more," she said. "Go now. Take the child. Keep her safer than you have so far. I don't want your money," she added, waving away the small pouch Adelvard offered.

Confused, Adelvard put his arm around Wynter and led her back outside. Having no place else to go, and with all their worldly possessions back at the stronghold, Adelvard returned there with his ward. He stayed out of Grognak's way and did his best to keep Wynter sheltered in their quarters.

Two nights later, Wynter came to him. "Don't eat the stew," was all she said. It was the first words she had spoken since his return. The look on her face scared him, but he didn't eat the stew. In a few hours, it was all over. The gang of thieves that had been his family for the last decade or so were all dead. A bad case of food poisoning, he thought ironically, but it was no more than they deserved. By not doing anything to stop Grognak, they were all equally responsible for what had happened to his ward. He didn't like the change it had made in her. She was tougher now, not as carefree. She spoke less and hardly laughed at all, unless it was a cynical, mirthless chuckle.

They took what coin they could carry between the two of them and left the stronghold, to blend into the anonymity of the crowded streets of the Imperial City.

_Present day:_

_Dovahkiin. _The word resonated somewhere inside Wynter. She didn't know what it meant, but felt she was on the verge of discovering something terribly important, if she could only unlock its meaning. Maybe it was another one of those Shouts, like _fus_. Maybe she needed another dragon soul to understand it completely. That thought didn't please her at all. She hoped to stay as far away from dragons as she could.

_Just deliver the damned report_, she told herself harshly. _Then let's get out of here!_ She made her way back up the hill to Dragonsreach. The citizens of Whiterun were still nervously speculating on whether or not a dragon had actually been seen, and what might be happening at the watchtower, but all of them commented on the Voice that had thundered down on the city.

"The Greybeards!" she heard one woman exclaim.

"They're calling the Dragonborn," said a Redguard dressed in finery.

"It's just like the legends of old," a city guard commented.

_I have _got_ to get out of here!_ Wynter thought desperately. She felt as though tendrils of fate were closing in on her. Picking up her pace, she half walked, half jogged up the stairs to the Jarl's hall, taking the steps two at a time. Inside, the people were only slightly less excited than those outside. Jarl Balgruuf had returned to his throne and was talking to his brother, Hrongar.

"You heard the summons," he stated as she approached. "What else could it mean? The Greybeards—" he broke off as he noticed her standing there, waiting to be noticed. "So," he addressed her, "what happened at the watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

"The watchtower was destroyed, my lord," Wynter said, still breathing hard. It had been a long run. "And we lost three good men and women, but we killed the dragon."

"Excellent!" Balgruuf exclaimed. "I knew I could count on Irileth. But there must be more to it than that." He eyed her keenly, waiting for her to speak.

_He's not stupid, _Wynter thought. _No one could have failed to hear that Shout. He already knows something happened. He just wants me to confirm it._

Reluctantly, Wynter admitted, "It turns out I may be something called 'Dragonborn'."

The Jarl nodded sagely. "Dragonborn? What do you know about the Dragonborn?"

Wynter shrugged. "Nothing, really. But when the dragon died, I absorbed some kind of power from it."

Balgruuf nodded again. "So it's true, then. The Greybeards really were summoning you."

"Greybeards?" Wynter asked, puzzled. "Who are they?"

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," explained the Jarl. "They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World." The tallest mountain in Skyrim, she knew. It loomed in the background over Helgen and Riverwood, and was still visible from any vantage point in the city of Whiterun.

"Why would the Greybeards be summoning _me_?" Wynter asked now.

Jarl Balgruuf's tone was patient as he enlightened her. "The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice—the ability to focus your vital essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. If you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to use your gift."

This sounded promising to Wynter. She very much liked the thought of knocking back her enemies the way the draugr had done to her.

Balgruuf was speaking to her again, and she focused her attention on him. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor."

Well, she supposed she _could_ put off her trip to Winterhold for a little while longer.

"And speaking of honors," Balgruuf continued, "you've done a great service for me and my city, Dragonborn." It was the first time he'd ever addressed her, personally, with any kind of name. She doubted he even knew her real name was Wynter. "By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office." He handed her another heavy axe she knew she'd never use. This made, how many now? Two axes and a shield. She wasn't sure where she was going to keep it; she didn't even have a place to lay her head, much less store her unwanted items. Somehow it didn't seem right to turn right around and sell it—at least, not here in Whiterun.

"I'll also notify my guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them to think you're part of the common rabble, now would we?" Wynter bristled inwardly. Until two seconds ago, _she _had been part of the common rabble. It seemed insensitive of Balgruuf to refer to the hard-working citizens of his city in that manner. "We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn," he finished.

With little else to do but accept, Wynter inclined her head awkwardly and turned to leave. Before she could reach the door, however, an attractive, dark-haired Nord woman, who looked to be in her early thirties, stepped up to her.

"Honor to you, my Thane," she greeted Wynter. _Oh, that's right,_ Wynter thought. _This must be Lydia._

"Thane?" Wynter repeated, perplexed. "What does that mean?"

"It's an honor reserved for you by the Jarl," Lydia explained, "for your service to our city. As a Thane you are treated with honor and respect from everyone in the Hold. Guards will know to look the other way if you tell them who you are."

_Well, that could be useful,_ Wynter thought privately. "And you're my Housecarl?" she asked. Lydia nodded. "What exactly does a Housecarl do?"

"I will honor, serve and obey you," Lydia stated simply. "I am sworn to follow you and do your bidding, and will protect you, and everything you own, with my life."

That seemed a bit extreme to Wynter, but she said nothing aloud. She thought about the Greybeards in their mountain temple. It was likely to be a long, perilous journey. She was already heavily-burdened with items she had picked up in the last few days. Until she could scrape together the funds to purchase a house, having an extra set of muscles to haul things around for her seemed like a good idea. She grinned.

"Follow me, Lydia," she said. "I need your help."

"You lead, I'll follow," her Housecarl cheerfully replied.


	3. Chapter 2: Greybeards and Vampires

**Wynter's Tale**

_Greybeards and Vampires_

"Are there _really _seven-thousand steps, Lydia?" Wynter grunted. It seemed they'd been climbing for several hours now. The weather was terrible, with snow blowing into their eyes, making it difficult to see. The last thing Wynter wanted was to step right off the mountainside, so progress had been slowed to a crawl.

"That's what I've heard, my Thane," Lydia huffed behind her. Burdened as she was, she still seemed to be handling the climb better than Wynter.

_It's all that heavy armor she's wearing,_ Wynter thought sourly. _She's used to carrying all that weight._ Her own pack was relatively light, most of the equipment having been transferred to Lydia. She hadn't been able to purchase a home in Whiterun yet; the cost was more gold than she had, and it didn't include furnishings. She was more than annoyed at that, as it meant that she and Lydia would have to carry all her worldly possessions between the two of them for a while longer.

Wynter carried the supplies she had accepted from a man in Ivarstead named Klimmek. He usually made the climb to High Hrothgar himself, he told her, but age had been creeping up on him steadily this past year, and he didn't feel up to the trip, so she offered to take the supplies up to the Greybeards since she was going that way anyway.

"Before I go," she began, "can you tell me if you remember a woman living here about twenty years ago or so?"

"What was her name?" Klimmek asked.

Wynter's face fell. "I don't know," she admitted. "But she was great with child at the time. She was killed by bandits somewhere on the road east of here."

Klimmek shook his head. "It doesn't ring a bell with me," he said honestly. "But I've only lived here about fifteen years. You might ask Boti, over at Fellstar Farm. She and Jofthor have lived here practically all their lives." Wynter thanked him and with Lydia in tow made her way over to the farmstead.

Boti was kind, but couldn't tell her much. "I think I remember something about that," she said, frowning. "I was a young wife at the time, and we were very busy with the farm, and I had a baby of my own to worry about." She indicated her daughter, Fastred, who was leaning on her hoe with a dreamy look in her eyes. Weeding cabbages was clearly not on her mind. "I seem to recall a young woman who lived in that old house across the river, where Narfi lives now. She kept to herself. We didn't see much of her. I was told she was widowed or something. She left one day and didn't come back. Narfi moved into her house a couple years later when it was clear she wouldn't be returning. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

"Do you remember her name?" Wynter asked hopefully.

Boti shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I've told you all I can remember." Boti called over to her daughter. "Fastred! Those cabbages won't weed themselves!" Wynter knew the conversation was over.

"I'm sorry, my Thane," Lydia said sympathetically.

"What?" Wynter said, startled from her thoughts.

"Clearly you hoped for more information than you received. I'm sorry you didn't get it."

Wynter compressed her lips and shifted the pack on her back. "Let's just get moving," she said. It was hard not to keep the disappointment out of her voice. She strode purposefully out of town and headed across the bridge.

Klimmek had told her the only thing she needed to worry about was the occasional wolf pack or bear. Clearly, he'd never had to worry about frostbite spiders, ice wraiths or trolls on any of his previous visits. The ice wraiths were the worst, since she didn't even know they were there until suddenly they were under attack.

Lydia swung viciously with her sword, but did little damage to them. Wynter's blast of Flames were much more effective. When it was over, she turned to resume the climb, but Lydia held back for a moment, poking through the remains.

"Here, my Thane," she said, holding out something. Tiny shards of what looked to be ice lay in her hand. "You might need these."

"What are they?" Wynter asked, accepting them.

"Ice wraith teeth," Lydia explained. "I've heard they're useful in certain potions, if you have an inclination towards alchemy. If not, you can always sell them."

Wynter was impressed. She hadn't really thought of alchemy—or its components—as being an additional source of income. It was definitely something to remember. She'd sold off the spider eggs she'd found in the caverns under Helgen, but hadn't given it another thought since then. From then on, as they walked, Wynter had Lydia point out anything that might be considered useful in potion-making.

"What can cure can also harm," Lydia said sagely as they climbed. "Sometimes an ingredient can be used one way to make a healing potion, but when combined with something else it can make a deadly poison. Those poisons can be applied to your weapons to do extra damage. I don't use them myself, but I've heard they can sometimes give you an edge over your enemies."

The woman was a fount of knowledge! Wynter could hardly wait to try her hand at alchemy.

"Of course, you'd need an alchemy lab to do any real work," Lydia went on. "I know Farengar has one up at Dragonsreach. And there's an alchemist down in the town, Arcadia. I know she sells potions and ingredients. If you ask her, she might let you use her lab."

"How would I know what to combine?" Wynter called back over her shoulder. "I don't know what these ice wraith teeth can do, so how will I know what to make from them?"

"You may have to eat one and find out," Lydia replied.

"Eat one?"

"That's really the best way," Lydia answered. "Of course, you can always just combine random ingredients, but you waste a lot of resources that way."

"You sound as if you've done some alchemy," Wynter probed.

"I've dabbled a bit," Lydia admitted. "But I'm definitely not as skilled as Arcadia."

Wynter thought about what her Housecarl said, then as casually as she could, she pulled one of the ice wraith teeth from her belt pouch and put it in her mouth.

It was hard and crunchy, and much colder than she expected. So cold, in fact, that the wind seemed to cut through her more than before. She shuddered.

"Ugh!" she grunted, and Lydia chuckled. Wynter glared at her.

"You knew that would happen!" she accused.

"Experience is the best teacher," the older woman grinned with a twinkle in her eye.

Muttering under her breath, Wynter wrapped her arms about herself and continued the climb. After several minutes the effects wore off and she felt better, but she now she knew at least one use for the ice wraith teeth.

They reached High Hrothgar just past midday. In contrast to the blowing wind and snow below, the skies above the Greybeards temple were clear, and the view overlooking Skyrim from here was breathtaking. Wynter gaped in awe at the glimpse of other mountains jutting up above the clouds, yet still so very far below them. They reminded her of islands in a lake, with the clouds like water lapping at their shores.

She deposited the supplies Klimmek had given her in the chest in front of the monastery, then climbed the remaining steps to the door. It was massive, made of iron, and she was sure if she knocked on it no one would hear it. Would they even answer it if they did? She knew nothing about the Greybeards. Still, they had summoned the Dragonborn, so they must be expecting her. She looked back at Lydia, who waited patiently, saying nothing, then grabbed the iron ring and pulled the door open.

Inside it was quiet, peaceful and dark. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust. Beyond the short corridor there seemed to be a courtyard or main hall of some kind, and daylight filtered down from somewhere above. She headed in that direction, hoping to find someone who could tell her where to go.

Four men, older than any she'd seen, stood waiting for her.

"Greetings, Dragonborn," one of them addressed her. "I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. You are welcome here."

"I came because you summoned me, Master," Wynter said. Lydia nudged her, and glancing back she saw the older woman bowing respectfully, so she hurriedly did the same.

"Of course," Master Arngeir acknowledged. "But first, let us see if you truly _are_ Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Thu'um."

Wynter was concerned. Did he want her to use her Thu'um, her Shout, on _him_? On the other Greybeards? She remembered what it felt like, being blown backwards by the draugr. This old man looked so frail she was afraid she would do him a serious injury if she Shouted at him. Master Arngeir seemed to sense her hesitation, for he spoke.

"Do not be afraid to use your Thu'um on us. We are prepared for it."

With a sigh of resignation, Wynter thought, _Okay, you asked for it,_ and Shouted.

_"FUS!"_

Instead of being knocked backward, however, the old man took the brunt of her Thu'um and merely staggered back a step or two. The pots behind him, however, went flying.

Master Arngeir beamed. "It's true then," he smiled. "You truly do have the gift. Now we can begin your training."

Wynter spent the next two days with the Greybeards learning to control her Shouts. They taught her the word _ro, _which Master Arngeir told her meant "balance", and which added to the power of her Unrelenting Force. They also taught her _wuld_, which meant "whirlwind"; using this allowed her to sprint a short distance with lightning speed.

"Each Thu'um has three parts," Master Arngeir explained. He was the only one of the Greybeards who spoke; the others, he told her, had voices much too powerful for ordinary conversation. "Each word you learn will make your Shout that much stronger."

"How many Thu'ums are there?" Wynter wanted to know.

"I am not certain," Arngeir admitted. "There are at least a score of which we know, but there may be many others of which we know not."

"Can you teach them to me?"

Arngeir pursed his lips in thought. "You learn very quickly, Dragonborn," he said finally. "But it is not always a good thing to learn without understanding. The Thu'um can be a powerful tool, or a devastating weapon. It is up to you to decide how you will use it, for good or for evil."

"You didn't answer my question," she pointed out shrewdly.

"I can teach you a few things," Master Arngeir admitted. "But the path you are on may very well lead you to places where you will find these Shouts on your own. It is not necessarily a good thing to learn too much too soon. When you are ready, we may be able to point you in the right direction. The rest will be up to you."

Wynter was dissatisfied, but could not get the old man to commit to any further instruction. The following morning Master Arngeir approached her and said, "It is time you prove yourself to be truly Dragonborn."

"How do I do that, Master?"

"We will give you a final test," he replied. "Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of our order. It lies in a place called Ustengrav, in Hjaalmarch. I will mark its location on your map, if you have one."

"I have one, Master Arngeir," Lydia said helpfully, pulling it from her pack.

"Who was Jurgen Windcaller?" Wynter asked.

"He was the founder of our order," Master Arngeir explained. "He was one of the First Tongues, those who first learned to use the Shouts. He developed a philosophy known as the Way of the Voice, which teaches us that the Thu'um should be used as a way to enlightenment, not for the glorification of man or mer."

Wynter had no interest at all in enlightenment. "And if I bring back this horn, you'll teach me another Shout?" she inquired eagerly.

"If that is what you truly wish, Dragonborn," Arngeir said, with a touch of disappointment in his tone. "But it is to be hoped that you will learn some things on your own."

"Alright, I guess we'll be off, then," Wynter said cheerfully.

"Sky above, Voice within," Master Arngeir intoned, bowing slightly before returning to the inner sanctum of the temple.

Wynter turned to the door to see Lydia staring after her. "What?" she demanded.

"Nothing, my Thane," the woman replied blandly. Whatever thoughts circled in her brain, she kept to herself, but Wynter had the distinct impression that her Housecarl disapproved. _Disapproved of what?_ she wondered. _Of me? What did I do?_

The journey to Ustengrav would be long, and even with its location marked on her map, Wynter had no idea how to get there. She simply didn't know the country that well. Fortunately, Lydia did.

"If we can get back to Whiterun we can take a carriage to Morthal, the capital of Hjaalmarch," she explained as they descended the seven thousand steps. "From the marker on the map, the ruins of Ustengrav are northeast of there."

"So we'll have to walk?"

"I'm afraid so, my Thane," Lydia affirmed. "That area is mostly marsh, so really we'll be slogging rather than walking."

"Lovely," Wynter rejoined, in a tone that implied the exact opposite.

Morthal was a small town, much like Helgen before the dragon attack, or Riverwood now. A few buildings scattered over the swampy fens, including an inn, a thaumaturgist and the Jarl's longhouse, Highmoon Hall.

"You might want to pay your respects to the Jarl here," Lydia suggested diffidently as they descended from the carriage and walked down the hill into the town.

"Why would I do that?" Wynter asked. Clearly the thought had not occurred to her at all.

"Well, it might be a good idea for the Dragonborn to make connections," Lydia offered.

"I'm not some pandering, brown-nosing courtier like Nazeem," Wynter snapped, remembering the unctuous Redguard landowner in Whiterun.

"Of course not, my Thane," Lydia replied, agreeably. "Forget I said anything."

Wynter gritted her teeth. Her Housecarl was very good at making suggestions that sounded more like lectures. The time they'd spent traveling together had been an education for both of them. Lydia was beginning to realize her Thane was not a hero born of legend, but an ordinary young woman with extraordinary abilities. This did not diminish her loyalty to her Thane one iota, but she did seem feel it her duty to point out Wynter's obvious lack of socio-political skills and graces in a manner that was more like a mother reminding an errant child to do her chores.

For her own part, Wynter didn't like to admit how much she was coming to rely on Lydia's knowledge of Skyrim and its people. This was still very new to her. Had it really been a month ago that she had set out for Winterhold? Only two weeks ago she'd been escaping from execution and a dragon attack. Last week she had helped to kill a dragon and had discovered she was Dragonborn. At this rate, she'd end up Jarl somewhere in no time!

As they approached the center of the small town they could see a group of people in front of Highmoon Hall, angrily conversing with a man standing on the steps.

"And what is the Jarl going to do about it?" one man shouted.

"How are we supposed to feel safe in our own homes?" demanded another.

At the top of the stairs, a middle-aged man in a rustic tunic and boots held his hands out in a soothing gesture. "Please, enough already!" he exclaimed. "I've told Idgrod of your concerns. She'll look after you. Please, go back to your business."

"We've no need for wizards in our midst!" the first man declared. The others muttered agreement.

"Morthal has enough problems as it is!" said the second man. The rest of the crowd began to break up and drift away. The man at the top of the stairs stood firm and unmoving from the doorway.

"Bah!" spat the first man. "It's no use. Let's get back to it, then."

The crowd broke up, muttering, and the man on the steps visibly relaxed, but remained alert.

"Well," commented Lydia drily. "Welcome to Morthal!"

Wynter didn't really want to get involved. She had her own mission to complete, and the sooner the better. Still, she'd best get the pleasantries over with. She walked up the short flight of steps to the Hall. The older man was still blocking the way.

"I've already told you," he stated intently, "Jarl Idgrod has things under control. Go on about your business."

Lydia bristled a bit at the man's tone, but Wynter said, "I'm not from here. What was that all about?"

The man sighed. "Ah, you saw that, did you?" He ran a hand through his chestnut brown hair. "I'm sorry for that, stranger. I'm Aslfur, Jarl Idgrod's Steward and husband." He took a deep breath and continued. "Life in Morthal has been troubled lately. The people are uncertain, restless. They merely look to the Jarl for leadership."

"What's been going on in Morthal?" Wynter asked, her curiosity piqued in spite of herself.

"Well, there's news of rebellion against the Empire, for starters," Aslfur said. "Strange noises have been heard in the marshes at night. And then, the tragedy with Hroggar's home." He gestured to the burned-out building nearby. "The people simply seek wisdom. Everything will be fine."

"May we enter?" Lydia asked now. "The Dragonborn wishes to pay her respects to Jarl Idgrod."

Wynter turned on her Housecarl with wide eyes. "Lydia!" she hissed. The older woman waved her hands helplessly.

"The Dragonborn?" Aslfur's eyes widened. "Of course!" he exclaimed. He hurriedly stepped out of the way.

Once inside Wynter muttered, "Why did you tell him that? I don't really want people to know who I am!"

"He wouldn't move out of the way," Lydia said simply. "And why shouldn't they know who you are? You're the hero of legend, and deserved to be treated with respect."

"Respect has to be earned," Wynter said, remembering what Adelvard used to say years ago.

Lydia blinked, then nodded. "Forgive me, my Thane. I spoke out of turn."

Jarl Idgrod was a lean, hard-looking woman in her middle years. She looked like many of the women Wynter had grown up around: cynical, bitter and used to getting her own way. When she spoke, it was with a clear message that she didn't tolerate fools lightly.

"The people don't see what I see," she told Wynter. "They resent change and barely tolerate strangers in their midst. They will see in time that Falion has a place here."

She looked long and hard at the young, pale-haired Nord woman in front of her.

"So," she said finally, "you're the Dragonborn, eh? Perhaps you can help me with a little problem I have here."

_Not again!_ Wynter thought. _The last time I 'helped' someone out, I got sent into a barrow full of undead and ended up helping to kill a dragon!_

"How can I help you, my Jarl?" she heard herself ask. What was wrong with her? She didn't want to get involved!

"You probably noticed the burned-out house next door," Idgrod said. "Hroggar's house. Terrible business, that. Lost his wife and daughter in the fire."

Wynter nodded. "That certainly is a tragedy, my lady, but I don't see—"

"No, of course you don't," Idgrod snapped. "Only I do, and I can't explain it to anyone. A lot of people here think Hroggar set the fire himself."

"Killing his own family?" Wynter exclaimed, shocked. "Why would he do that?"

"Why, indeed," Idgrod nodded, knowingly. "And why would he pledge himself to Alva before the ashes were cold? It's shockingly curious, and damningly circumstantial. I can't accuse Hroggar without proof. You could get that proof for me. Find out if he's guilty or innocent, and if he's innocent, who the real perpetrators are."

She wasn't under a time constraint, she knew, but Wynter didn't want to mix herself up in local politics. She wanted to be free to do what _she_ wanted to do, and so far, since coming to Skyrim, she hadn't been allowed to do it. It seemed everyone had something they wanted her to do. If she was being completely honest with herself, her failure to find out any information about her mother in Ivarstead had soured her. She felt as though her life had no direction or purpose, and she no sooner had finished one task for someone, than someone else came along wanting a piece of her.

On the heels of that thought, however, came another: what did it mean to be Dragonborn? Did it mean she had a destiny she couldn't fight? Did it mean that the people looked to her for protection and assistance. Did it mean her life did not belong to her, but to Skyrim? And if she was truly Dragonborn, could she sit back and refuse to help those who asked it of her?

Yes, yes, yes and no.

"I'll do it," she told Jarl Idgrod now, in a tone of resignation. The Jarl smiled a triumphant smile. She'd known Wynter would do exactly as she'd been asked.

"Why are we waiting?" Lydia hissed.

"I'm trying to establish Alva's routine," Wynter whispered back, "now hush!"

Their first investigative step had been to examine the ruins of Hroggar's house. While there, a ghost had appeared. Lydia had drawn her sword, but Wynter stayed her hand, seeing the ghost was that of a child, Hroggar's daughter Helgi.

The child-ghost had promised to tell her who had set the fire, but only if they would play hide-and-seek with her after dark. Having little other options, Wynter had agreed. But how could one find a ghost after dark? They had returned to the inn to rest, and Wynter mentioned it in passing to the innkeeper, who in turn suggested she tell Jarl Idgrod what she'd seen.

Idgrod was thoughtful, and had told Wynter the best place to look for Helgi's ghost would be the graveyard. On the way, they met Thonnir, one of the men arguing with Aslfur as they'd come into town earlier that day.

"Keep your wits about you, Dragonborn," he told her. "Morthal is hardly a safe place."

"What do you mean?" Wynter asked.

"I mean I'm just a poor man, trying to make a living," he said. "I'd leave, if it were in my power. This damned war has cost us…._me_…everything. My wife ran off to join the Stormcloaks and hasn't returned. My poor Laelette! Now my son, Virkmund has to grow up without his mother. What life is that? It's not right, I tell you!" He stalked off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

From there it went downhill. Wynter and Lydia went to the cemetery after dark to try to find Helgi's ghost again to learn who'd set the fire in Hroggar's house. Out of nowhere a form leaped at them, claw-like hand extended, draining energy. Two red-hot, glowing eyes glared at them out of the darkness.

Lydia had her sword out in an instant, slashing at the creature. Wynter drew her sword and dagger and laid down dual attacks. In a moment, it was all over, and they stared down at the creature they had killed. Once it had been a woman—a very beautiful woman, too—but now the face was contorted with evil, a snarl frozen upon the lips drawn back from large, extended canine fangs.

"Ugh!" Lydia shuddered. "A vampire!" She turned to Wynter. "Are you injured, my Thane?"

"No," Wynter said. "She never laid a claw on me."

Lydia gave a fervent sigh of relief. "That's good," she said. "What do you know about vampires?"

"Not a damn thing," Wynter admitted.

"Well, you'd best stock up on potions that will cure any kind of disease, then," Lydia told her. "If a vampire so much as scratches you, you can contract _sanguinaris vampiris_, the disease that will eventually turn you into a vampire yourself."

Wynter felt suddenly chilled. She made a mental note to herself to heed her Housecarl's warning.

Helgi's ghost appeared then and told them that Laelette had set the fire at Alva's insistence. "Laelette wanted to keep me with her forever, but she can't. I'm all burned up." The child-ghost disappeared.

A sudden thudding of approaching footsteps put them on guard again, until they realized it was Thonnir. When he saw the vampire at their feet, a cry of pure, raw anguish was ripped from his throat.

"Laelette!" he howled. "My poor Laelette! What's happened to you?"

"I'm sorry," Wynter told him. "She attacked us. She's—she _was_ a vampire."

"Who did this to you?" he wept, holding his wife's body close.

"We think it was Alva," Wynter said, sympathetically. Thonnir looked up sharply through his tears.

"Alva? But Laelette hated the woman!" His brow furrowed. "Still…about a week before she disappeared, she was supposed to meet with her. And it was Alva who told me Laelette had joined the Stormcloaks." He stood then and took off his woolen cloak, putting it over his wife's body. "Do you think Alva is a vampire too?" he demanded.

"It's a possibility we can't ignore," Wynter admitted.

"Then find out!" Thonnir growled. "Search her house and find proof. If she's guilty, I want to make sure she pays for this!" He ran back down the hill, into the town, headed for the Jarl's longhouse.

That brought Wynter to this point, staking out Alva's house, watching and waiting for an opportunity to break in and search the place. As dusk fell the night after Laelette's attack, Wynter watched as Alva left her house, walked down the main street of Morthal and headed out onto the moors, disappearing into the darkness.

"Now!" Wynter hissed, and she and Lydia moved as quickly and as quietly as they could to the house that adjoined the Imperial outpost. She waited until the soldiers were looking the other way, then quickly picked the lock on Alva's house. It was a better lock than some, but Wynter managed to open it on the first try. Lydia pursed her lips, observing this particular talent in her Thane, but said nothing.

They slipped inside, but were surprised to find Hroggar there. "You should never have come here!" he roared at them, swinging his axe.

Wynter ducked under his attack and came up behind him. She drew her sword and dagger and attempted to hamstring her opponent. Lydia blocked Hroggar's second attack and swung with her blade, connecting with Hroggar's unprotected arm and feeling the steel grate on bone. Hroggar howled, but came at her again.

Wynter slashed at his legs and Hroggar went down to his knees. She reached around in front of him, slipping her dagger under his throat and heard him gurgle as her blade cut deep, slicing through muscle, artery and tendon. He slumped to the ground and did not get up again.

"I'm sorry, Hroggar," Wynter murmured. To Lydia she said briskly, "Let's search this place and see what we can find."

It wasn't a large building, and Lydia soon pointed out a stairway leading to a lower level. They descended to find an open coffin, which Lydia told her a vampire needed to rest in during the daylight hours. In the coffin was a small, leather-bound journal. Wynter would have ignored it, but Lydia said, "That looks important, my Thane. Maybe there's something in it we can use. What does it say?"

Wynter shifted uncomfortably. She didn't take the book. "I don't know," she said.

"Read it and find out," Lydia urged.

"No, not right now," Wynter argued.

"We don't have much time, my Thane," Lydia said impatiently. "Alva could return any moment. Read the journal!"

_"No!"_ Wynter yelled.

"For the love of the Nine, why not?" Lydia demanded, frustrated.

"I—I can't read." The words came out low and quiet, shamed and embarrassed.

"Oh." The older woman stopped. It had never occurred to her that her Thane was illiterate. "Well, I'll read it then, with your permission." Wynter merely nodded.

Setting aside the surprise of this new revelation about her Thane, Lydia read the journal out loud. They learned that Alva was indeed a vampire, under the sway of another, much older master vampire named Movarth. Their plan was to bring all of Morthal under their sway, to be used as cattle to be fed upon whenever they wished. It was an insidious plan which might actually have worked, had not Laelette messed things up by trying to keep Helgi as a pet.

Slipping back out of Alva's house, Wynter and Lydia returned to Jarl Idgrod, who had to be awakened to receive the news. The Jarl didn't seem upset at having her sleep interrupted, however. "So, Hroggar was innocent after all, and Alva was behind all of this trouble? That clever bitch! I didn't think she had it in her."

Idgrod turned a keen eye on Wynter. "You know that Thonnir is very upset about this?" Wynter nodded. "He's gathering together as many of the townsfolk as he can to track Alva out onto the moors. If that ancient vampire Movarth is involved, they don't stand a chance. You'd best go with them and see if you can't persuade them to let you handle this. You look like you can manage things on your own. You've done very well so far."

Wynter sighed to herself. She had a feeling that's where this would all lead. "I'll do it," she promised.

As they left the longhouse, a crowd of people were waiting for her, led by Thonnir.

"We're coming with you, Dragonborn!" Thonnir stated. "We're going to avenge my Laelette!"

"Do you know what you'll be facing?" Wynter asked him.

"It doesn't matter," Thonnir insisted. "We're going, with you or without you!" He took off at a run, heading out of the village, the mob following him with their pitchforks, axes and torches.

"They could have waited until daylight," Lydia commented sourly.

Wynter gave a frustrated sigh. "Come on," she said. "We'd better go see if we can talk some sense into them."

It wasn't hard to follow the crowd. Their torches could be seen for at least a half mile, bouncing over the hilly terrain. Finally they stopped at an ancient cairn. Wynter and Lydia caught up with them as they milled about outside in uncertainty.

"This is an ancient ruin," one of the women, Lami, said. "These ruins are full of undead."

"It doesn't matter," Thonnir insisted. "They took my Laelette from me. They should all die!"

Wynter saw her opening and spoke.

"Do any of you happen to have any cure potions on you?" she asked innocently. Lami nodded, but the others shook their heads. "You do know if they scratch you, you could turn into a vampire?" she pressed, throwing a grateful look to Lydia for the information.

"I don't want to be a vampire!" Jorgen, Lami's husband, said.

"You're all cowards!" Thonnir declared. "Well, I'm not afraid!"

_You should be,_ Wynter thought. _I'm terrified!_ Aloud she said, "I don't think it's a matter of courage, Thonnir. They have a right to be concerned for their safety. Look, why don't you let Lydia and I handle this? That way none of you has to get hurt."

The rest of the crowd began to argue back and forth. Some, like Thonnir, seemed determined to fight for their families and their town. Others, now that the first flash of passion had cooled, began to seriously question whether they were up to a fight of this caliber.

"The Dragonborn speaks sense, Thonnir," Jorgen said finally. "She's killed hundreds of dragons. A vampire or two shouldn't be any trouble for her."

_When did it become 'hundreds of dragons'? _she wondered.

Thonnir seemed to be wavering. "Well—" he began.

"It's alright, Thonnir," Wynter told him. "I know you're a brave man, but you would only be in the way."

His shoulders slumped, but he put on a brave face. "You're probably right," he admitted. "But kill them all for me! Avenge my Laelette!" Wynter patted his shoulder in reassurance, and he turned to follow the others back to town.

"So," Lydia asked brightly when they'd gone. "_Do_ you have any cure potions?"

"I lifted two off of Lami when no one was looking," Wynter said smugly. "Let's do this!"

The ruin was actually a series of connected caverns. Lydia followed as Wynter worked her way through the lair, crouching, moving quietly, and staying hidden in the shadows until the last moment. Having no desire to confront any vampires in hand-to-hand combat unless absolutely necessary, Wynter had switched to her hunting bow and steel arrows, hoping they would be enough to kill a vampire. It wasn't exactly a stake through the heart, but it would have to do.

Several thralls and lesser vampires stood between her and Movarth himself, but with patience and perseverance, she and Lydia finally managed to take out the entire nest of vampires, including Alva and Movarth himself. At one point a surprise attack from behind her caught her off guard, and she felt her skin burn where the night-creature had slashed her. As soon as he had been dispatched, Lydia insisted she drink one of her precious potions, though they hadn't yet cleared the lair.

"_Sanguinaris vampiris_ can come on quickly," the older woman warned. "You won't even know you have it until you feel your blood boiling in the sun. And that can happen even if you're underground during daylight hours."

Wynter looked keenly at her Housecarl. "You speak from experience?"

Lydia hesitated, then nodded. "A long time ago." She paused as if to gather her thoughts, then spoke quietly. "There was a young man I was very much in love with, and he with me. We were betrothed to be wed. We had traveled to Riften, to the Temple of Mara, and were preparing to head to the ceremony when vampires attacked. Talmund was torn to pieces in front of me by death hounds."

"By the Nine!" Wynter whispered sympathetically.

"I fought them off, and with the help of Riften's guard we killed them all. With my fiancé dead, I arranged for a funeral instead of a wedding and headed back to the Bee and Barb, the local inn. A few hours later, I was in dire distress. My blood felt as though it was on fire in my veins. I staggered back to the Temple of Mara and begged for her blessing, which I was given willingly. It removed the disease, and I felt peace such as I hadn't known for most of my life, even when Talmund was alive. It helped to bear the loss of his passing."

"I'm sorry, Lydia," Wynter said. "What did you do then?"

"I returned to Whiterun and entered the service of Jarl Balgruuf," the Housecarl replied simply. "I received training as a Housecarl and personal guard, and I've been there ever since."

"Have you been a Housecarl for anyone else before me?" her Thane asked.

"No, my Thane. You're my first assignment."

Wynter let that sink in. "You're doing a fine job," was all she said. "Let's get moving."

The fight with Movarth was brutal. Lydia, who had restrained herself up until now, when rushing in, screaming, _"Die you blood-sucking scum!"_

The two thralls with him closed in to keep her from reaching their master, and Wynter, perched on a ledge above the main chamber, could only pepper the vampires with her arrows. Wynter knew her puny Flames and Frostbite spells would have little effect, even if she could have reached him from her vantage point. She wished she knew something stronger, with better range, but for now she kept hammering at him with her steel arrows.

Lydia had taken out both thralls, but that still left Movarth himself, and her Housecarl had gone to her knees under the vampire's relentless draining attack. Wynter was alarmed. She didn't know any spells that would restore the Nord woman's health. She leaped down from the shelf, landing lightly, and rushed in, sheathing her bow on the fly and drawing both blades.

Before Movarth realized what was happening, a white-blonde fury was in his face, slashing and cutting with her twin blades. He left off attacking the heavily-armored woman to deal with the spitfire in front of him. But it was too late. The swiftness and preciseness of her attacks dealt more damage than he could regenerate from his draining attacks, and he felt his unlife ebbing away.

"No more!" he cried. "I yield, I yield!"

"Not a chance, you sick bastard!" Wynter gritted, and gave a final slash with her sword, separating the vampire lord's head from his shoulders permanently. It sailed through the air and landed with a heavy, squishy _thud_ ten feet away.

Wynter returned to Lydia. "Are you alright?" she asked.

The older woman nodded. "I will be," she gasped. "My thanks, my Thane."

They scoured the caverns, then. Wynter was determined to take as much equipment as she could to sell. When she'd approached Proventus Avenicci about purchasing a home in Whiterun, he'd offered a place called Breezehome, but at a cost way beyond what she could afford. All the weapons and armor left behind here were septims waiting to be had, as far as Wynter was concerned.

Lydia was more concerned with how they would carry everything until they returned to Whiterun.

"Can't we sell it in Morthal?" Wynter asked.

"Where, my Thane?" Lydia asked, bluntly. "Morthal has no smithy, only a lumbermill. I don't think they'd be interested in swords and shields."

"There's that alchemy shop Lami owns," Wynter pointed out.

"I doubt you could persuade her to purchase weapons and armor," Lydia said, shaking her head. "And if we go on to Ustengrav from here, you're likely to find more things you'll want to take with you. It _is_ a barrow, after all."

She was right, Wynter realized. "Then we'll have to head back to Whiterun," she decided.

"We'll have to walk, my Thane," said her Housecarl. "We're out where the carriages don't run."

"But it brought us here!" Wynter protested.

Lydia shook her head, "He didn't stick around, my Thane. He left as soon as we entered town."

Wynter fumed in frustration. She would have to leave some of this behind. There was no way the two of them could carry everything. "Fine, then," she simmered. "How much do you think you can carry?"

Lydia sighed heavily and grumbled, "I am sworn to carry your burdens."


	4. Chapter 3: Riften

**Wynter's Tale**

_Riften_

Lydia held her peace for most of the trip back from Ustengrav. Her Thane was furious. After spending hours crawling through the ancient barrow, they had failed to procure the one item they'd been sent there to find: the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Someone else had gotten there first and taken the artifact, leaving only a mysterious note.

_"Dragonborn,_

_ I need to speak to you. Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_ - A friend."_

Other than that, it had been a fairly successful trip, in that they had taken out a nest of bandits, a conclave of necromancers and any number of draugr and skeletons still walking about. Her Thane had acquired a new Shout, and there had been plenty of plunder, though Lydia personally felt it was wrong looting the deceased. Her Thane, however, had no such scruples.

"They can't take it with them, or it wouldn't be here," Thane Wynter had pointed out, pocketing a few more coins she'd found in a ceremonial urn. Lydia kept her peace.

Her Thane had been made a Thane of Hjaalmarch before they'd left, with a new Housecarl, Valdimir, assigned to her. There were no houses available for purchase, however, though Aslfur told her there was land available to build upon. Thane Wynter thanked him, but didn't seem interested enough to make the transaction. Lydia held a quiet conversation with Valdimir and was satisfied with the man's qualifications to protect their Thane should he be chosen to accompany her. Personally, Lydia felt this was unlikely, and she warned the man that he might have to find things to occupy his time while he waited.

"I've got my books," he said staunchly. "And there's always training in combat and magic to keep me busy. I'll be here if Thane Wynter needs me."

Lydia shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Valdimir," she smiled.

It had taken two trips to Morthal and Ustengrav to bring everything back to Whiterun, and Lydia was exhausted. Thane Wynter, on the contrary, showed no signs of slowing down. They waited in the great hall of Dragonsreach overnight. Lydia had a pallet in the lower level where she could have rested, but not while her Thane had nowhere to lay her head. They could have taken a room at the Bannered Mare—goodness knew they had the coin for it now—but Thane Wynter had insisted on waiting to speak to Proventus Avenicci about purchasing Breezehome almost as soon as the man broke his fast. Well, at least it would give them a base of operations from which to work.

She would have been lying to herself if she didn't admit she wanted to stay with her Thane. The young woman was just shy of becoming wildly out of control, and she didn't handle disappointment very well. Lydia saw the first sign of that in Ivarstead, and each set-back had only made her Thane's mood more sullen and moody. Ustengrav may very well have been the last straw. Without the Horn, Wynter could not complete her training under the Greybeards and receive their blessing to go on about her business—whatever that might be. Lydia felt her Thane needed her now more than ever, and hoped she wouldn't be consigned to remain in Whiterun.

As soon as Proventus came down to the great hall, Wynter approached him and negotiated the purchase of Breezehome, in addition to furnishing it comfortably. She was scowling, however when she returned to her Housecarl.

"Damned Imperial bandit!" she swore. "Sixty-eight hundred septims! How does that man sleep at night?"

"Were you able to purchase the house?" Lydia asked, worried. Thane Wynter seemed about ready to go off on a tirade.

"Yes, I bought it, and all the furnishings," Wynter muttered. "I've got enough left over to buy food for a while, so you should be okay."

"My Thane?" Lydia was confused. "Won't you be there as well?" This was not good! The worst thing her Thane could do right now would be to go off on her own.

"I've got some things I need to do first," Wynter said as they left Dragonsreach and descended the stairs to the heart of Whiterun.

"But I should be with you," Lydia protested. "I am sworn to protect you with my life."

"Me and everything I own," Wynter clarified shrewdly. "And right now everything I own is tied up in that house. It's not much of a house, but at least it's protection from the elements."

"My Thane, have you thought about this?" Lydia asked. "What about that note?"

Wrong tactic.

"Yes, what about that note?" Wynter snarled, rounding on her Housecarl. "Did the Greybeards set that up, too? I'll bet they did! They didn't want to teach me any new Shouts, did they? Oh sure, I learned one more at Ustengrav. Big deal, I can walk through walls now! Can't affect a gods-damned thing while I'm transparent, though. A fat lot of good that will do me!"

Lydia knew her Thane couldn't walk through walls with her new Shout. She was being overly dramatic.

"I don't think the Greybeards—" she began, but Wynter turned and stalked away.

"I don't care what you think, Lydia," she said savagely. "Wait at Breezehome until I need you. I'm leaving now." She Shouted, _"Wuld!"_ and sprinted away.

Sadly, Lydia sighed and made her way to her Thane's new home, taking time to note that at least the younger woman had thought to unlock the door for her on her way out of the city, and wondering if she would ever see the Dragonborn again.

"Hold there," the guard at the gate told Wynter. "Before I can let you in, you have to pay the visitor's tax."

"Visitor's tax?" Wynter repeated, irritated. What sort of nonsense was this? "What's the tax for?" she challenged.

"For the privilege of visiting our fine city, of course," the guard told her smugly. "Pay up, or I don't let you in."

Wynter looked at him carefully. With his helmet on, it was impossible to see his face, but something in his tone made her bet septims to sweetrolls that the Jarl knew nothing about this "tax." She glanced at the other guard, a woman, who kept her head turned away from the business. She didn't fool Wynter; her body language screamed that she was paying close attention to the proceedings. Deciding to call the guard's bluff, Wynter raised her voice enough for the stable hands to hear.

"This is obviously some kind of shakedown!" she declared.

Instantly, the man retracted. "Alright, alright," he shushed her. "Keep your voice down! I'll let you in. Just give me a moment to unlock the gate."

Wynter hid a private smile as the gate was opened and she passed through into the city proper. Behind her she heard the female guard say, "Told you it wouldn't work."

"Shut up," growled her partner.

The first thing Wynter noticed about Riften was the stink. The air was choked with the odors of rotted fish, moldy wood and stagnant water. Perched at the eastern end of Lake Honrich, Riften was the capital of Rift Hold, and had been—at one time—a thriving fishing community. Now, because of the influence of an active Thieves' Guild, Riften itself was past its glory days, and the canal that once brought so much commerce to the city lay choked and unused, except when acting as a waste dump.

It was the lure of the Thieves' Guild which had brought her here. Adelvard had mentioned it to her a few times while she was growing up. It had always been a dream of his to belong to such a prestigious organization. But circumstances had kept them in Cyrodiil, near the Imperial City, and they'd had as much chance coming to Riften as she had sprouting wings.

She was here now, however, and the first thing she needed to do was find a way to contact the Guild. She felt only a moment's pang of conscience for tasks left undone, but it quickly passed. It wasn't as if she hadn't already gone above and beyond what had been asked of her.

Wynter had kept enough coin for food and drink, and perhaps a night or two at the local inn, but her purse was decidedly thin, and she hoped she'd find a way to get in with the Guild and make some good money soon. She crossed over the causeway to a place called the "Bee and Barb". Lydia had mentioned it.

A pang of guilt washed over her. She'd treated her Housecarl shabbily, but she'd been so furious at coming up empty-handed at Ustengrav. She honestly didn't know if the Greybeards had set her up, or if someone else had stepped in. It didn't really matter now, but she wished she hadn't been so harsh with Lydia. The woman had only been trying to help.

These thoughts occupied her mind as she entered the 'Barb and looked around for a place to sit down and get something to eat. She was in the middle of her meal when a shadow loomed over her.

"Pardon me, lass, but you look like you're down to your last septim," said a smooth, lilting voice.

Wynter looked up to see a youngish man with reddish hair and beard, wearing fine clothes.

"I beg your pardon?" Wynter blinked.

"Maybe you'd like the opportunity to earn some valuable coin?" the man offered, seating himself before she could invite him.

"May—be," Wynter admitted slowly. "Depends on what I have to do."

"Ah!" he approved. "There speaks a lass who's going places! I have a little business deal, if you're interested. Name's Brynjolf," he added, by way of introduction.

"Wynter," she said shortly. "And I'm listening."

Brynjolf outlined his plan to her. It sounded simple: steal a ring from a certain lockbox and plant it on someone else without being seen or getting caught by the Riften guards. Wynter was thrilled. She was worried she might have to ask too many suspicious questions to find a Thieves' Guild contact, and here he practically dropped into her lap! And he wasn't that bad looking, either, if she were honest with herself.

"We'll do it tomorrow morning," he said quietly. "Just let me know when you're ready."

"Why are you framing this guy?" Wynter asked. It made no difference to her; she planned to go through with it anyway, but she _was_ curious.

"Let's just say he's poking his very long nose in where it doesn't belong," Brynjolf told her, "and we want to teach him a lesson. And we'll leave it at that."

Wynter shrugged and promised to meet him the next day when she was ready. She waited until he was gone, then slipped out of the 'Barb into the night. Guards patrolled the market quarter, but she moved from shadow to shadow until she had worked her way around to the particular stall Brynjolf had told her about. Unseen, she picked open the lock on the sliding door, then the lock on the strongbox, and pocketed the ring in question, closing everything up again before slipping back into the shadows and heading back to the Bee and Barb. She could have taken the gold from the box as well, but that might have drawn suspicion, and Adelvard had always taught her to _never_ raise suspicion.

She slept well that night, and in the morning rose, broke her fast and wandered outside to the market area. She took note of the mark, a Dunmer vendor by the name of Brand-Shei. Behind his stall were some crates she could hide behind if Brynjolf kept to his end of the arrangement. She caught the red-haired man's eye and gave him a nod, then moved around the market area as Brynjolf raised his voice and went into a sales pitch for "genuine Falmer-blood elixir."

She waited until all eyes were focused on the salesman before crouching and slipping behind the crates. Moving silently, she crept up behind the Dunmer as he sat at the front of the pile of wooden boxes, arguing with Brynjolf over the merits of his elixir. It was the work of a moment to slip the ring into the dark elf's pocket and withdraw unseen.

She moved away, still crouching, and didn't stand until she had ducked behind the half-wall that encircled the market. When she stood, she caught Brynjolf's eye again and casually walked back toward the Bee and Barb.

She hovered by the doorway for a moment, uncertain what to do next, but a sudden commotion made her turn. One of the guards—whom she later realized must have been tipped off by Brynjolf—approached Brand-Shei and immediately accosted him, questioning him about stolen property. The ring was quickly found on him, and the Dunmer was hauled away, protesting vehemently at the top of his lungs as to his innocence.

"Nicely done, lass," a husky voice whispered in her ear, and Wynter thrilled. She hadn't even heard Brynjolf come up behind her. "I think you'll be a fine addition to our little family."

"So I'm in, then?" she asked, turning to look at him. Yes, he _was_ easy on the eyes, she admitted to herself. It had been a long time since she'd allowed herself to think of any man as attractive. And Brynjolf certainly fitted that description. His eyes were the most interesting shade of green, and Wynter wondered what it would be like to get lost in them.

Brynjolf chuckled, and Wynter felt she could listen to that all day. "Not so fast, lass. One more test. Find me at the Ragged Flagon in the Ratway. If you can do that without getting yourself killed, you're in!" He peered past her shoulder intently, and she turned to look at what he'd seen. There was nothing unusual there, and when she turned back, he was gone. Damn! He was good!

It didn't take her long to find the Ratway. One of the guards explicitly told her to stay out of the lower-level causeway that encircled the canal running through Riften. The stench here was stronger, but Wynter closed her nose and breathed through her mouth where she could. She found an apothecary on this level—Elgrim's Elixirs—and noticed a strange symbol carved next to the door: a square within a circle divided by horizontal lines. She wondered what it meant.

At the far end of the causeway, opposite to the alchemy shop, was a gated doorway. It opened rustily, and beyond that was an iron door. It, too, opened rustily, revealing a set of stairs that led downward. From what she had gathered, this must be the way to the Ragged Flagon.

Not far inside she heard voices arguing. Two men seemed to be in disagreement about where to "set up shop" and harass anyone coming down into the tunnels. Wynter decided it was better to leave the Ratway free from tolls, so she used her Flames until they got too close, then switched one hand to her sword while keeping the Flames going for as long as she could. When she felt her Magicka depleted, she pulled the dagger and finished them off.

She didn't escape uninjured, however. Several of their cuts had met their mark, and she winced as she pulled a few minor healing potions from her pack and downed them before continuing on.

The tunnels and corridors wound this way and that, and at one point Wynter had to drop down to a lower level, a raised drawbridge keeping her from continuing any further. Several more twists and turns, and a few scorched skeevers later, she found herself on the other side of the drawbridge where she found a lever to pull, which lowered it.

"Well, that will make it easier getting _out_ of here," she told herself.

With few other places left to explore down here, she took the last tunnel and opened the wooden door at the end. The large cavern beyond seemed to be some kind of cistern, with a walkway surrounding a pool of water. At the far end of the chamber she heard voices, clinking tankards and crockery, and realized she had finally found the Ragged Flagon.

Brynjolf greeted her as she entered.

"So, you made it, lass!" he grinned. "Not too much trouble finding the place, eh?"

"I'm here," Wynter smiled. "So, am I a member now?"

"Well, it's not exactly for me to decide, lass," Bryn admitted slowly. "But cheer up," he added as her face fell. "I'm sure Mercer will let you in. I've already told him how neatly you handled yourself upstairs. He wants to see you. Follow me."

"Who's Mercer?" Wynter asked as they left the Flagon and wended their way through a short corridor behind the bar.

"He's the Guildmaster," her companion explained. "He tells the rest of us what to do. If he likes you, and thinks you can do the job, you'll be in."

Mercer wasn't nearly as impressed as Brynjolf had been with her.

"Hmph," he snorted. "She doesn't look like much. I hope you're right about her, Brynjolf. We can't afford to make any mistakes."

"She's the one, Mercer," Brynjolf insisted. "I'm sure of it. I never even saw her take the ring from Madesi's strongbox, and I was watching!"

Wynter hid a smug smile. _You weren't watching last night when I took it,_ she thought, but kept that knowledge to herself.

"Alright, Brynjolf, if you're sure," Mercer said doubtfully. "But you're in charge of her, understand? Give her something to do and we'll see how well she gets it done." With that, Mercer turned back to his desk and ignored them.

"Come on," Brynjolf said. "I'll show you where you can put your things and sleep, if you've a mind. Then I'll give you your next assignment."

The next couple of weeks were busy ones for Wynter. At first Bryn had her shake down some of Riften's merchants who owed the Guild "protection" money. They weren't happy with her, and one—Haelga, who owned the Bunkhouse—outright despised her. Each time the woman saw her she would sneer, "Oh, it's you again. Come to take more of my hard-earned money?"

Wynter soon learned that the Bunkhouse didn't earn nearly as much for Haelga as her body did. Most of the city guard and nearly half the male merchants were recipients of her "favors", and Wynter felt that Haelga's feelings toward her were mutually returned.

One of the first things she learned from her new "family" was the meaning of several curious markings on the buildings around Riften. A book lying next to her bunk explained in detail what each of the markings meant, but Wynter couldn't read. She asked one of the other Guild members, a shy young man named Rune, to read it to her. She learned that some of the symbols meant good loot to be had, while others meant "stay out" in no uncertain terms. Rune told her the author, Delvin Mallory, was a Guild Member right there in Riften and could often be found in the Ragged Flagon. Wynter made a special effort to commit the symbols to memory.

Her first big job came when Mercer told her to infiltrate Goldenglow Estates, a meadery on an island in the middle of Lake Honrich. She was to find information about who was sponsoring the meadery, which was in direct competition with Black-Briar's, a meadery owned by the patroness of the Thieves' Guild, Maven Black-Briar herself. If possible, she was also to burn down no more than three of the beehives on the estate.

Sneaking into the Estate was not a problem. Wynter took it slowly and carefully, and made her way into the private quarters of its owner, Aringoth. She found the documents she needed, but her eye was caught by a statue of a large golden bee, sitting on a golden honeycomb. Unable to help herself, she grabbed the statue and stuffed it into her pack. She hoped Delvin might be able to tell her what it was worth.

On her way out of the estate, she remembered she was also supposed to torch some of the beehives. That didn't seem too difficult. _No more than three, eh? No problem!_ she thought. She checked the wind direction and moved to the easternmost hive. The wind blowing from the west would keep most of the flames away from the others, until she chose to light them up.

The first beehive went up beautifully, like a beacon in the night. A flurry of activity near the manor house alerted Wynter that she needed to hurry. She lit up the second beehive, keeping one eye on the manor house. Time was running short.

Then the wind shifted.

Blowing from the west for most of the evening, it suddenly swung around and blew in from the east. The flames, fanned by this new direction, suddenly flared up, lighting up the area as bright as daylight and silhouetting Wynter against the stone fence behind her.

"Crap!" she muttered.

The third beehive caught fire before she could light it, and the wind spread the flames to a fourth.

"Double-crap!" she swore. The sound of pounding feet grew louder, and Wynter knew it was time to leave. As she slipped over the stone wall to jump into the lake, a fifth beehive ignited.

"Son of a b—" she muttered, sinking under the surface and swimming powerfully away.

Mercer was not happy.

"Three!" he thundered. "You were only supposed to burn three! Not all five!"

"I'm sorry," Wynter mumbled morosely. "The wind changed direction on me."

"And you didn't allow for that?" he demanded. Wynter blinked at the injustice of that statement. How could she possibly allow for the vagaries of nature?

"I'm sorry," she mumbled again, helplessly. This was it. She'd blown it. Mercer would kick her out of the Guild, just when she was settling in.

"Don't say 'sorry' to me again," he yelled. "Say it to Maven, if you've got the nerve. She wants to see you."

Wynter raised her head. "Maven wants to see me?" she asked nervously. "Why?"

"Probably wants to ream you a new one for screwing up like that," he said snidely. "How am I supposed to know? Go see her, and don't keep her waiting. She's at the Bee and Barb."

"You mean now?"

"No, next week, if you can fit it into your busy schedule," Mercer snapped sarcastically. "Yes, I mean now. Go!"

Vex gave her a pitying look on her way through the Flagon. The woman was brusque, but she _had_ been helpful on the Goldenglow job, letting Wynter know of a secret way into the estate. Delvin was much more sympathetic, especially after Wynter had given him the statue she'd pilfered.

"Well, now," he drawled in that quaint accent of his. "Will you look at that little beauty!"

"What is it?" Wynter had asked.

"It's the Queen Bee Statue," he explained. "I've been looking for this for a long time."

"Is it worth anything?"

Delvin spluttered. "Worth anything? It sure is!" He pulled out a pouch of coin and looked inside before handing it to her. "Here, this ought to be compensation enough. And here," he added as she turned to leave. "If you find anymore—uh, _artifacts_ like this—you be sure and let me know, eh?"

Wynter smiled. "I will, Delvin, and thanks!" She hefted the pouch, mollified. The coin Delvin gave her made up for losing her bonus by torching too many of the beehives.

Her meeting with Maven wasn't as bad as she dreaded. The information she had gathered at Goldenglow mitigated the powerful woman's ire to some degree, though she still looked down her long nose at Wynter, standing in front of her in her Thieves' Guild leathers.

"These papers indicate a known contact of ours in Solitude," Maven said. "I'll have to discuss this with Mercer. In the meantime, go to Whiterun and talk to Mallus Maccius at the Bannered Mare. He's got a little job for you. See if you can do it without screwing up again. You're dismissed."

Wynter hesitated only the barest moment, but Maven glared at her. "Why aren't you gone yet?" she asked coldly. Wynter jerked her head in an obedient nod and fled. The woman was certainly intimidating. No wonder half the Guild avoided her and the other half walked on eggshells around her. Thankfully, Maven's visits to the Guild headquarters were rare.

Wynter returned to Mercer and told him of her meeting with Maven. Mercer "hmm'd" a bit then said only that she should do the job Maven gave her before dismissing her. Wynter was beginning to resent being banished like a daedra, but she fled to the outer sanctum of the Flagon where she met up with Vex.

"I hear you've got a special job from Maven," the tall, thin, blonde thief said. "I also heard you messed up that Goldenglow job but good."

Wynter glared at her. "Okay, I screwed up. I should have known the wind would shift direction."

Vex's eyes widened. "Easy, kid," she said. "I didn't mean anything by it. We all mess up now and then." Vex hesitated, then admitted, "I messed up on Goldenglow, too. That's why they gave it to you. Sorry it didn't go well. But I heard you forfeited your pay on that job."

Wynter glowered, but nodded.

Vex shrugged. "Well, if you're ever interested in making a little extra coin on the side, I've got a few jobs I could float your way. One of them's even in Whiterun." So apparently Vex knew her next job was located there. It seemed there were no secrets in the Thieves' Guild.

"What kind of jobs?" Wynter asked.

"Well," she drawled. "I handle all the burglary, shill, sweep and heist jobs; the ones that require breaking and entering. Delvin handles the fishing, numbers, and bedlam jobs; the ones that require a more…_personal_ touch. We've only got one rule: get in, get out, and don't get caught. Oh, and try not to kill anyone. We don't work that way. We leave that for the Dark Brotherhood."

She quickly described the different kinds of jobs to Wynter, who pledged herself to a sweep job at Chillfurrow Farm. She was required to slip in and steal whatever looked valuable. Wynter then walked over to Delvin at the bar to see what he had available, and committed herself to a numbers job at the Whiterun Stables.

"Just sneak in, rearrange the ledger so the numbers favor us and get out without bein' seen or caught," he told her. "It's that simple, and that difficult. Think you can handle it?"

"I'm in," she said. She might not be able to read, but she knew how to count.

"That's my girl," Delvin approved with a grin.

The numbers job took her no time at all. Sweeping Chillfurrow Farm was also easily accomplished. The business with Mallus Maccius took a bit longer, as it required presenting herself as a vermin exterminator and slipping poison into a vat of mead. There was no direct way into the mead boilery, however. She'd had to sneak through skeever-infested tunnels; the skeevers were like none she'd ever seen: larger, tougher and disease-ridden. Somewhere down in the bowels of the underground tunnel system, she encountered a madman bent on taking over the world with the buffed-up rodents. Maccius certainly hadn't said anything about _that!_

She made sure to mention it to _him_, however, after the job was completed and the owner of Honningbrew was hauled away for trying to poison an Imperial Captain with tainted mead.

"Why didn't you tell me about the lunatic down in the tunnels?" she demanded.

Maccius shrugged. "Well, if I had, would you have gone down there to clear him out?" He tossed her a hefty pouch of gold. "Here's for your trouble, though. Thanks!"

"So what are you going to do now?" Wynter asked, slightly assuaged by the payment. It _was _generous.

"You're looking at the new owner of Black-Briar's West," he said smugly. "If you've got anything you've…uh…_acquired_, and you need a place to sell it, come see me. And if you see Maven, tell her that everything is running smoothly here."

Wynter sincerely doubted she'd be spending any time in the disagreeable woman's company, but merely said, "Yeah, I'll tell her that." So Maccius was now available to fence her stolen items? That was a good thing to know. She left Honningbrew and walked down to the Stables where the carriage waited. All her tasks were completed, and she looked forward to returning to the Guild. She deliberately did not go back to Breezehome. She still didn't know what to say to Lydia, and was tired of being manipulated by the Greybeards, or whoever it was who had taken the Horn.

"Let them sit and stew a while," she grumbled sourly. "I'm tired of being at someone else's beck and call." _But isn't that exactly what you're doing in the Guild?_ she demanded of herself.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered under her breath, as she climbed into the carriage that would take her back to Riften.


	5. Chapter 4: Guildmaster

**Wynter's Tale**

_Guildmaster_

The summer sun shone down warmly on Wynter as she rode in the carriage back to Whiterun. It had been four months since the job at Honningbrew, and so much had changed. _She_ had changed. She had everything she thought she had wanted now, but it was ashes in her mouth.

The greatest change had been discovering that the Guildmaster, Mercer, had betrayed them. The vaults were cleaned out, and the Guild was broke. All the work Wynter had done to make coin for them was for naught. As she watched the scenery pass, she thought back over the last several weeks.

Maven had instructed Mercer to send someone to Solitude to find out who was behind the patronage of Honningbrew and Goldenglow Estates. Mercer had sent her, and at first her contact, an Argonian named Gulum-Ei, had been reluctant to reveal the name behind the coin. Some intimidation had loosened his scaly lips, however, and he'd thrown her a line she didn't believe. She'd followed him to the East Empire warehouses down by the docks and trailed him to his secret lair in a place known to locals as Brinewater Grotto.

Gulum-Ei had been shocked to see her, and under further questioning admitted his contact was a Dunmer woman named Karliah. He had pleaded for his life, and thinking he might be useful later on, Wynter had spared him.

Mercer had been curiously unsurprised by this revelation, and told her Karliah had been a member of the Guild years before, but had left after killing Gallus, the man who had been Guildmaster before him. He instructed her to meet him alone at Snow Veil Sanctum and had left.

Wynter finished the numerous miscellaneous jobs Delvin and Vex had given her before going out to meet Mercer. Together they had made their way through the ancient crypt to an inner chamber blocked by what Mercer called an "ancient Nordic puzzle door." Wynter remembered seeing a similar one in Bleak Falls Barrow.

"How quaint," Mercer commented wryly. "Without the matching claw, they're normally impossible to open. And since I'm certain Karliah already did away with it, we're on our own."

"Then how do we get past it to reach her?" Wynter asked, concerned. She hoped they hadn't come all this way only to be thwarted at the last.

"Well," Mercer drawled, "fortunately these doors have a weakness, if you know how to exploit it." He began fiddling with the central locking mechanism, but kept his body between it and Wynter, and try as she might, she couldn't see around him well enough to see what he did to it. "It's quite simple, really. Karliah's close, I'm certain of it!" Something clicked loudly and Mercer gave a satisfied grunt. "That's done it! Now let's get moving!" The door rumbled and groaned as the three stone wheels aligned and the entire portal sank into the threshold and disappeared. He gestured to her. "After you," he smiled, with a glint in his eyes.

Suspecting nothing, Wynter stepped through, then gasped and sank to her knees as an arrow shaft sprouted from her shoulder. A weakness spread through her body and her vision blurred. She toppled over onto her side, and for several moments she knew nothing more.

When she regained her senses, she could see and hear Mercer and Karliah talking nearby, but could not move a muscle of her body.

"Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?" Mercer asked snidely.

"Give me a reason to try," Karliah replied softly. Her voice was nothing like Wynter had imagined. It was not harsh or grating, as she had come to expect from most Dunmer of her acquaintance. It was almost—_musical_ in quality.

"You're a clever girl, Karliah," Mercer admitted, admiringly. "Buying Goldenglow Estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery was inspired."

Karliah acknowledged the praise with a slight nod of her head, but kept her arrow trained on Mercer. "'To ensure an enemy's defeat, you must first undermine his allies.' It was the first lesson Gallus taught us," she said.

"You always were a quick study," Mercer admitted.

"Not quick enough," Karliah denied, "otherwise Gallus would still be alive."

This seemed to anger Mercer. "Gallus had his wealth and he had you," he sneered. "All he had to do was look the other way."

The Dunmer woman's voice shook with emotion as she countered, "Did you forget the Oath we took as Nightingales? Did you expect him to simply ignore your methods?"

"Enough of this mindless banter!" Mercer snarled. "Come, Karliah! It's time for you and Gallus to become reunited!" He readied his sword, moving lightly on his feet, waiting for her to give him an opening.

The Dunmer girl shook her head. "I'm no fool, Mercer. Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence. But I can promise the next time we meet, it will be your undoing!" She pulled something from her pocket and drank it in one swift motion, and suddenly vanished from sight.

Mercer growled in frustration, but his quarry was gone and he was not foolish enough to attempt to stay around and wait for her to reappear. He strode over to where Wynter lay, paralyzed.

"How interesting," he mused with a cruel smile. "It appears Gallus's history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place."

A thrill of fear shot through Wynter. _What have I done?_ she thought in panic. _Why is he doing this to me? I'm a Guild-sister!_

"But do you know what intrigues me the most?" Mercer continued, looming over her. "The fact that this was all possible because of you. Farewell! I'll be sure to give Brynjolf your regards!"

He drew his sword back, then thrust forward into her chest. Searing pain ripped through her, and Wynter's last thought before the darkness claimed her was, _He's jealous of Brynjolf and me?_

The pain had subsided. Her breathing had become easier. She felt warm sunlight on her face and a light breeze was blowing. Dragging her eyes open, Wynter stared straight ahead of her for several seconds before things came into focus. The first thing she saw was the Dunmer woman, Karliah, sitting on a rock not far away. She struggled to sit up.

"Easy, easy," Karliah crooned softly. "Don't get up so quickly. How are you feeling?"

Wynter wiggled her hands and feet and rolled her shoulders. "Alright, I guess," she replied hoarsely. "Hey! You shot me!" She cast about for her weapons and found they were safely secured on her person.

"No," the dark elf girl corrected her. "I saved your life. My arrow was tipped with a unique paralytic poison. It slowed your heart and kept you from bleeding out. Had I intended to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"So why did you save me, then?" Wynter asked, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. She still felt wobbly, but the effects of the poison had run their course, and she was already feeling more like herself.

Karliah sighed. "My original intention was to use that arrow on Mercer, but I never had a clear shot. I made a split-second decision to get you out of the way, and it prevented your death. I wanted to capture Mercer alive, bring him back to the Guild and make him answer for his crimes, but I failed."

"He told me you killed Gallus, but it was really him all along," Wynter mused. "So what happens now?"

"I've found Gallus' journal," Karliah told her, "but I can't read it. It's encoded. There's only one man I know of who could possibly translate it, and he's a mage at the College of Winterhold. His name is Enthir. Perhaps he'll help us."

_How ironic,_ Wynter thought. Six months after leaving the Imperial City, she was finally going to the College at Winterhold, but not to study magic!

Enthir met them at the Frozen Hearth, the only inn in the small, broken town of Winterhold. Nearly seventy years ago, according to the locals, half of the once-thriving city suffered a catastrophic collapse, falling into the Sea of Ghosts. Not much remained except a few small buildings, and the College of Wizards itself. Most of the townsfolk regarded the College with suspicion, if not outright hatred, and blamed the "damned wizards and their weird experiments" for the disaster that had befallen their city.

Wynter couldn't help but wonder how many of them had been around at the time. Certainly Enthir might have been. The Bosmer, or wood elves, tended to live longer than men. There wasn't time now to explore that intriguing bit of history, however. Their main concern was Gallus' journal.

"I might be able to translate this, if I had a key," he told Karliah. "But the only one I know of is in the Dwemer museum in Markarth, kept under lock and key by that old tightwad, Calcelmo. If you could get a copy of that key, I might be able to help you."

He turned to Wynter. "The key is a carved stone tablet," he told her. "All you'll need to do is copy down exactly what it says. Don't worry if you don't understand it. As long as you make it legible, I'll be able to use it."

Wynter gulped. Writing? She couldn't even read! But she couldn't bring herself to admit it to the two elves with her now. "I'll get a copy for you, somehow," she promised.

Markarth was built into a canyon, which was said to have been underground long ago before the ground shifted, opening it up to the sky. Wynter had no more than stepped through the gates before her eyes caught a suspicious-looking person sneaking up on a young woman with a knife drawn.

Before anyone knew what was happening, Wynter had her own blade out and caught the man's attack in its downstroke with her sword.

"For the Forsworn!" he shouted, and turned to attack Wynter. Four months of rigorous training with Rune, Viper, Sapphire and the rest of her extended "family" made it no contest. Wynter dispatched the man quickly. The woman who had been his target thanked her profusely, but the guards were moving in and Wynter just wanted out of there.

"Here, I think you dropped this," a young man told her, handing her a piece of paper.

"That's not mine," Wynter said, moving away.

"Yes, it must be," the man insisted. "I saw it fall from your pocket." He shoved the piece of paper into her hand and left before she could say anything.

Wynter gave an exasperated sigh. Whatever the young man wanted to tell her in his note was lost on her. She really _must_ make time to learn to read!

The wizard, Calcelmo, was about as crotchety as any old man she'd ever met. He growled and fussed and fumed over his research, and no matter how much she begged, pleaded or tried to intimidate him, he refused to give her the key to the museum unless she killed a huge spider in the ruins beneath Understone Keep.

"I simply can't continue my research until that beast is taken care of," he told her. "You do that for me, and I'll let you borrow my key."

By now Wynter was getting used to the 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' philosophy of the people of Skyrim. No one seemed to be willing to do something without getting something in return for it. _Well,_ she asked herself honestly, _are you any different? _She chose not to answer that one.

The spider, Nimhe, was bigger than any Wynter had ever seen. Entering the ruins she proceeded with caution, looking everywhere but up. That was how the arachnid got the drop on her, literally. Wynter slashed with both blades, but the spider's thick exoskeleton protected her far too well.

As her deadly fangs pressed closer, Wynter kicked herself mentally. Of course! How could she have forgotten?  
_"FUS, RO!" _she Shouted, and the enormous, eight-legged nightmare went flying across the chamber.

Wynter scrambled to her feet and put away her blades. She summoned her Magicka and channeled it through her cupped hands, directing the jet of Flames at the monster as she returned to finish Wynter off.

Poison spewed from the fangs, hitting Wynter squarely in the face, where it stuck and burned like acid. Her vision blurred, and Wynter was torn between keeping the Flames going or channeling some of her Magicka into a healing spell she'd learned not long ago. The one nice thing about spellbooks, she'd learned, was that she didn't have to know how to read to learn the spell. Just opening them and paging through them seemed to be enough to release the energy which absorbed into her, much like the Shouts she learned.

Gritting her teeth now, she kept up the Flames until she felt her Magicka nearly spent, but it was enough. With a shudder, the huge spider known as Nimhe sank to the floor of the cavern, rolled over onto her back and curled up into a ball.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Wynter waited a moment or two to recover before casting a healing spell on herself. Searching the immediate area turned up nothing useful. More than a little disappointed, she returned to Calcelmo to report her success. The old wizard seemed to have forgotten he'd sent her, but he was delighted to learn he could continue his explorations of the ruins without worrying about the local vermin. He gave her the key to the museum.

Once inside the museum, Wynter looked around for anything resembling a stone tablet with carvings on it. She saw nothing in the museum itself, but a door at the back of the hall looked promising. On a whim, she tried the key Calcelmo had given her. It fit the lock and turned over easily. Checking to make sure she wasn't being observed, Wynter crouched, opened the door just wide enough to slip through and entered the private domain of Calcelmo's laboratory.

She had to avoid several guards, and even some Thalmor, as she navigated her way to the innermost sanctuary. There, on the second floor, she finally found the stone tablet Enthir had told her about. But how to get a copy of it? It was too large to move or carry, even if she could have detached it from the wall. She'd already heard noises of alerted guards and didn't think she'd have time to copy all the markings down precisely.

Casting about her, Wynter noticed a large quantity of paper and some charcoal and got an idea. Working quickly, she covered the tablet with paper and used the charcoal to rub over the paper-covered surface. Everywhere the carvings recessed into the stone, the paper remained blank; it wasn't the most precise way to transfer them, but it was fast, and right now she needed speed. She heard voices and footsteps coming down the main corridor, approaching the sanctum. She rolled up her finished rubbing and put it carefully into her pack, then leaped lightly to the ledge around the perimeter of the lower chamber.

It was Calcelmo's nephew, Aicantar, with a couple Markarth guards and the city captain in tow. Wynter waited above them in the shadows until they split up, looking for the intruder they were sure was there. She slipped behind them and dropped back down to the corridor, running silently back the way she'd come. A noise up ahead made her duck into a side chamber, and she found herself in what must be Calcelmo's personal living quarters.

An interesting item caught her eye; it was medium-sized, square, and made of Dwemer metal, covered in intricate designs. She'd seen quite a bit of dwarven stuff since she'd come to Skyrim, but she'd never seen anything like this.

_I'll bet Delvin would pay good coin for that,_ she grinned to herself as she stuffed it into her pack.

A door led onto a balcony outside, and Wynter found herself high above the city of Markarth. Roaring, rushing water pounded down from her right as a waterfall gushed over the lip of the cliff above and fell forty feet to the basin below.

_Way too far to fall,_ she grimaced. Looking to her left, she noted the way the balcony rail melded into the stone of the building behind her. Beyond it was a rudimentary pathway of sorts down to the lower reaches of Markarth. A guard in heavy armor wouldn't be able to negotiate it, but to someone like Wynter, trained in stealth and used to climbing in and out of places she shouldn't be, it was as good as a goat trail. She took it and carefully made her way down to an area behind the smelter of Cidnha Mine. She hadn't realized she'd come that far around the city, since Understone Keep was nearly opposite her on the far side.

As casually as she could, she walked away from the smelter and headed for the Stables outside the city walls to return to Winterhold.

Enthir had been dubious of her efforts.

"Really?" he raised an eyebrow at the roll of paper she'd extended. "A rubbing?" He sighed. "Oh well, I suppose it's better than nothing. I guess I can work with it."

Despite his misgivings, he was able to use it to translate Gallus' journal. He confirmed for Karliah that Gallus had suspected Mercer of skimming from the Guild's vaults, and violating something called the Twilight Sepulchur. Wynter asked Karliah what that meant, but the Dunmer thief wouldn't answer, telling Wynter only to meet her at the Ragged Flagon.

"Is that wise?" Wynter asked. "Everyone there thinks you killed the former Guildmaster. Your life could be in danger."

"You should be more worried for your Guild-brothers and –sisters than for me," Karliah said quietly, but Wynter had the feeling there was steel behind the words. She knew then she didn't want to cross the dark elf.

"Alright," Wynter said. "I'll meet you there. I'll vouch for you to Brynjolf. If Mercer's gone, he's probably in charge right now."

Karliah gave her an odd look, but said nothing, and Wynter didn't think it worthy of questioning. They split up and made their separate ways back to Riften.

The rest of the Guild were _very _suspicious of Karliah, and if she hadn't been there to vouch for the dark elf, it might have gotten very ugly indeed. Brynjolf was willing to give Karliah the benefit of the doubt and listen to her, and together she and Wynter told him everything that had happened thus far. When he learned Mercer had betrayed them, he called Delvin over with his key to the vault. Together they opened it, explaining that it was impossible to open it without both keys being used at the same time.

An empty chamber was all that met their eyes, and Vex was furious. She was most vocal in her plans for what she would do to Mercer if she met up with him again. None of that mattered at the moment, however. Brynjolf ordered Wynter to go to Mercer's home in Riften. She was surprised. She didn't know he had a residence within the city. She promised to search the place to see what she could find.

"Good luck, little sister," Vex said. "And while you're there, clean the place out for us, okay?"

Wynter gave her a wicked grin. "It would be my pleasure," she said.

She'd had to trick his bodyguard, Vald, into giving her the key.

"Mercer needs you in Markarth right away," Wynter cajoled. She threw everything she had into looking as innocent as possible.

"But I can't leave here!" Vald protested. "I'm supposed to watch his house. What do I do?"

"I'll watch it for you, Vald," she offered, as sincerely as she could. "It's the least I can do to help you out."

"Wow," he smiled. "That sure is nice of you, little sister!" He took a large iron key out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Here," he said, "hang onto the key for me, and don't let anyone in!"

"I won't!" she promised, and waved as he ran down the street to catch a carriage to the City of Stone. _Idiot!_ she thought, hiding a private smile.

The key didn't help her get up to the door, however. She had to figure out a way to lower the ladder, which she accomplished by shooting at the trigger with an arrow.

Mercer hadn't left a lot behind, Wynter discovered, but there were notes in his handwriting that she brought back, as well as anything of value he hadn't taken with him, including a marble bust of a famous thief known only as the Grey Fox. Delvin crowed with delight when he saw her lugging it in, and paid her a significant amount of gold for its recovery.

"You're single-handedly restoring the name of the Thieves' Guild all over Skyrim, you know," he complimented her. Wynter basked under the praise. At least _someone _appreciated her hard work!

She returned to the Cistern, where Brynjolf and Karliah waited. The two were seated together near Mercer's desk, their heads together, and Wynter felt a sudden pang in the region of her heart. Brynjolf was looking at Karliah in a way she wished he'd look at her. They both stood as she entered, though Bryn seemed a little reluctant to move from the dark elf girl's side.

With quiet purpose in her voice, Karliah told them both to meet her at the Shadow Stone outside Riften. When questioned, she only replied, "We need to be at full strength before we move against Mercer. I'll meet you there."

She left, and Brynjolf stared after her with a longing expression in his green eyes. Wynter realized the pang she'd felt was jealousy.

"What do you think she meant by that?" she asked, unable to keep the sour note from her voice.

"Hmm? What?" Bryn asked absently. He seemed to come back to himself. "We'll find out, won't we, little sister?" He tussled her hair and left out the back way, through the cemetery exit. Wynter felt a stinging in her eyes, but she refused to give up yet. She had tried for four months to get Bryn to see her as something more than a "little sister", without success. Perhaps he just needed a little more time.

The meeting with Karliah at the Shadow Stone had led to a turning point in Wynter's short life. The "full strength" Karliah mentioned included restoring something she called the "Trinity"—three members of the Guild sworn to the service of the Daedric Prince Nocturnal, the patron of the Nightingales. Rune had read her the book she'd found in the Guild, and they'd both had a lively debate over whether the Nightingales were indeed real. Neither of them had ever heard of them before.

Now, however, Karliah was asking both her and Brynjolf to pledge themselves to that service, to guard the Twilight Sephulcher, Nocturnal's sacred shrine.

"When Mercer betrayed his Oath, he defiled the very thing he swore to protect," she explained. "He took the Skeleton Key, which opens the Ebonmere, the conduit to Nocturnal's realm in the Evergloam. With the Ebonmere closed, the souls of the Sentinels, the previous Nightingales, can't reach the Evergloam to be renewed. They'll fade away." She sounded worried. "In addition, it was the Skeleton Key that allowed Mercer to open the Guild vault without the required two keys."

"Who exactly _is_ Nocturnal?" Wynter asked.

"She's the mistress of night and darkness, and the patron of every thief in Tamriel," Karliah said simply. "She influences our luck and in return, demands payment. Not payment in the traditional sense, and sometimes the cost can be quite high. But whether you know it or not, Nocturnal dictates how well we perform as rogues."

"What do you mean?" Bryn asked, raising an eyebrow.

Karliah paused, as if wondering how best to explain herself. "Haven't you ever noticed how our luck behaves?" she questioned them. "Like a novice picking an impossible lock, or a blind man suddenly turning to face you as you reach for his pocket?" Bryn nodded. "It's through these subtle means that Nocturnal influences us. Does she exact payment when we die? When we suffer, does she revel in our misery? No one knows, but the return certainly seems worth the risk."

Wynter was thoughtful. "When I first joined the Guild," she began slowly, "Delvin told me he thought the Guild was cursed. He said ever since Gallus was killed, something was 'piss-drunk mad' at us. He thought all our luck had run out."

"Until you came along," Bryn smiled. "I knew I was right to bring you in. You've restored our reputation all over Skyrim and helped to establish contacts in all the major cities."

Wynter's heart beat faster at his praise. So he _had _noticed! "What do we have to do, then?" she asked Karliah.

"To have any hope of defeating Mercer," the dark elf replied, "we must have Nocturnal at our backs. If she's to accept you as one of her own, an arrangement must be struck. The terms are quite simple: Nocturnal will allow you to become a Nightingale and use your abilities for whatever you wish. And in return, both in life and in death, you must serve as a guardian of the Twilight Sephulcher."

Bryn and Wynter looked at each other. She wasn't sure what he was thinking, but the thought of serving a Daedric Prince for all eternity wasn't exactly how she thought she'd be spending her afterlife. Still, that eventuality might be a long way off, and a lot could happen between now and then.

"Alright," she said solemnly. "I'm in."

"I guess that makes two of us," Brynjolf added.

From that point there was no turning back. Karliah called upon Nocturnal, who accepted the terms of the contract and named them Nightingales. They were sworn to her service, and to secrecy about their status.

"That's how we work," Karliah explained, "in complete secrecy. No one can know. We've spent centuries making the very idea of Nightingales seem like a legend."

Karliah also gave them special leather armor enchanted to enhance their thieving skills and abilities, as well as better weapons than those they currently were using. Wynter marveled at the balance and strength of the sword she was given. She gladly gave up the Imperial sword she'd been using all this time. She'd made improvements to it, but had somehow never gotten around to replacing it, or the dagger she preferred for her off hand.

"There's one more thing, Wynter," Karliah spoke up before they left the Nightingale Hall. "Brynjolf and I have been talking."

The flash of jealousy returned with a vengeance, and Wynter's eyes narrowed. "About what?" she asked, suspiciously.

"We think you would be the best person to lead the Guild, now Mercer's gone," Brynjolf said.

Wynter gaped. He might just as well have told her the sky was pink.

"Me?" she practically squeaked. "I'm the most junior member of the Guild. Why me?"

"The Guild has accepted me back into their ranks," Karliah explained, "but that doesn't mean they trust me."

"And I don't have a head for management," Brynjolf admitted. "I'm a rogue—a damned good one if I say so myself—but I don't have a clue about running things."

"And you think I do?" Wynter demanded. She was angry. She didn't want to be saddled with this responsibility.

"There isn't anyone else we'd trust," Bryn said. "You know we're all just a bunch of thieves, but we need someone that the entire Guild looks up to, and that's you. Everyone's been talking about your accomplishments."

_I did them for YOU, Bryn, _she wanted to cry. _I hoped you'd notice me if I was as good as you!_

"We need to have this settled before we deal with Mercer," Karliah said in her quiet way. "It's not the Guild way to kill, but we need to have a Guildmaster who can make that hard choice if it becomes necessary."

Wynter's heart sat heavily in her chest. If she became Guildmaster, she would never have a chance at being Bryn's lover. But seeing the way he looked at Karliah, she was beginning to believe it would never happen anyway. Brynjolf only ever saw her as a Guild-sister. He would never see her as a love interest.

With a lump in her throat she took a deep breath and straightened. "Alright," she said. "If you both think this is the best way—" she blinked back the stinging in her eyes—"I'd be honored to accept."

The look of relief in Bryn's emerald green eyes made her want to give in to those unshed tears, but she pulled herself together. "So what now?" she asked, as calmly as she could.

"Mercer's notes said something about Irkngthand," Karliah said.

"What's that?" asked Wynter.

"It's an old Dwemer ruin way north of here, west of Windhelm," Bryn explained. "We think that's where he's gone."

"That doesn't make any sense to me," Wynter commented. "Why would he go there?"

"His notes said something about the Eyes of the Falmer," Karliah supplied. "It was to have been Gallus' greatest heist, but he died before he was able to do it." Her voice, always soft, grew more wistful every time she spoke of Gallus, and Wynter remembered Mercer telling her the two had been lovers.

_So she still misses Gallus?_ Wynter thought sympathetically. _I wonder if Bryn has picked up on that._ Aloud she asked, "What are the Eyes of the Falmer. It sounds like something valuable."

"They are," Karliah replied. "Two huge crystalline jewels, set into an ancient statue of a Snow Elf, the only known representation of that lost race."

"And that's what Mercer's after," Wynter mused thoughtfully. "Anything I need to know about Dwemer ruins?"

"Some of the Dwemer machines still roam their corridors," Karliah said. "They can be deadly. And a lot of times the creatures known as Falmer inhabit the ruins. They can be tough to fight."

"Wonderful," Wynter drawled, in a tone that implied the opposite. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, watch your step," Bryn said sardonically. "Anything could be a trap."

Irkngthand proved to be the most challenging ruin Wynter had yet delved. Without Brynjolf and Karliah, she was certain she would have died in the first area, a place Karliah called the Arcanex. They fought their way past traps, mechanical constructs and Falmer until they reached the last zone, the Sanctuary. Rising from the floor, fifty feet into the chamber, a huge statue of a Snow Elf, made of some unknown metal—presumably Dwemer—rested cross-legged on the stone floor, a tablet or book of some kind depicted in its left hand, its right raised to hold a torch.

Wynter stared in awe at the behemoth, taking in the detail of its workmanship, the way the armor and clothing had been sculpted, and the exquisite artistry of its face.

Crawling across that face, working to loosen the crystalline eyes, they saw Mercer Frey, former Guildmaster and traitor to his Nightingale Oath.

Several things happened at once, when he spotted them. He did something which collapsed the ledge they stood upon, tumbling them to the bottom of the chamber. As they picked themselves up, a queer look came over Brynjolf's face and he began to attack Karliah.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Wynter shouted at him.

"It's Mercer!" Karliah cried out, defending herself against Bryn's vicious attacks. "He still has his Nightingale powers. He's turned Brynjolf against us. Go! Take out Mercer! I'll deal with Brynjolf!"

Unable to assist, Wynter ran up a long flight of stairs to where she'd last seen Mercer. He was nowhere to be found. Suddenly he appeared behind her and struck out, landing several excruciating blows before vanishing again.

_Damn you!_ Wynter thought. _How can I fight you if I can't see you?_

Once again, she remembered her other talents. Was she not Dragonborn? She kept forgetting that she had other ways of fighting. She gathered her energy and called out—not a Shout, but a whisper_—"Laas!"_

Instantly the world turned red for a heartbeat, and when it faded, she could see the auras of Bryn and Karliah struggling below. And to her right, coming across the front of the Snow Elf statue, a red figure moved swiftly toward her.

"Ha!" she grinned, striking out viciously and accurately with her two blades.

"Gah!" Mercer cried as they found their mark. He struck out at her, but she parried his attack and crouched, sweeping her foot out in a low kick meant to take his legs out from under him. Mercer saw the ploy, however, and jumped to avoid her kick, striking down with his sword and catching her on her shoulder. She screamed in pain and furiously slashed back with her Nightingale sword, but Mercer was already moving away, and her Aura Whisper Shout was fading away.

Wynter hissed as the cut leached blood down her chest. She stayed where she was, however, preferring to let Mercer come to her. A slight warping of light and the faint scuff of leather on stone was all the warning she received as he came up the long flight of steps in front of her, but Wynter was ready for him.

_"FUS, RO!"_ she Shouted. She wished she could have seen his face as he was blown backwards, but Mercer was still invisible. The satisfying _thud_ of his body against the stone wall, and the heavy "oof!" which emanated from that direction was well worth it, however. She hoped he hit hard enough to do some damage.

Mercer's third attack was a bold, frontal melee against her, fully visible and determined to lay her out. Wynter did her best to parry his flurry of blows, but again, he was able to slip through her guard and cut her deeply on the leg, nearly taking her to her knees. He withdrew again, giving her an opportunity to throw off a healing spell before readying herself for the next assault.

She was frustrated. She didn't seem to be doing enough damage to hurt him, or else he knew magic as well, and was healing himself as she did between attacks. There had to be a faster way to deal with the traitor; a quick glance below told her that Brynjolf was getting the better of Karliah. She needed to do something now!

She whispered, _"Laas"_ again to pinpoint Mercer's position, then deliberately turned to look in the opposite direction, waiting for him to approach. She felt, rather than saw him move up behind her and whirled around, Shouting _"Tiid!"_ in his face.

Time slowed to a crawl as Mercer's sword moved at a snail's pace to make his strike. She only had a few heartbeats with which to make her attacks, so she slashed and stabbed with both hands as quickly as she could. Mercer's face went from smug confidence to confusion to dismay as, from his perspective, the small, blonde Nord girl he had discounted as valuable, whom he had tried to kill, suddenly became a whirling vortex of steel and pain. Cuts erupted all over his body, spilling out his life's blood on the cold stone floors of Irkngthand.

Darkness crowded his vision, and he whimpered, "No….not like…this…" as he fell fifty feet to the floor below.

Wynter leaped after him, reaching his body just moments before all Oblivion broke loose. She quickly found the Skeleton Key, as well as the two Eyes of the Falmer, and a jeweled ring on Mercer's hand which she took because she liked the look of it.

Brynjolf's geas vanished as soon as Mercer died, and when he saw what he'd done to Karliah he cried out in anguish and scooped up the Dunmer thief in his arms, holding her close. Hot tears stung Wynter's eyes again, and she knew in that moment that she never truly had a chance with the red-haired Nord.

A loud bursting noise boomed through the cavern, and water began to flood in, filling the chamber rapidly. Brynjolf hoisted Karliah over his shoulder and shouted to Wynter.

"We need to get out of here!"

"Mercer collapsed the ledge we were on," Wynter yelled over the sound of rushing water. "It's blocked the doorway. We can't get back out that way."

"I've got a couple potions of Waterbreathing," Bryn said as they made their way up the long stairs, "but I've only got the two, and there's three of us."

"Mercer's ring…" Karliah coughed. "Waterbreathing." Wynter looked at the ring she'd taken and then at Brynjolf.

"Use it, lass," he said, firmly. "Karliah and I will use the potions. But we'd better hope we find a way out before their effectiveness runs out."

Wynter slipped the ring on, and felt an odd, closed-in feeling creep around her lungs. She cast about the chamber, looking for another way out, but could find nothing.

"We'd better hurry," Bryn said grimly, "or we'll be serving Nocturnal a lot sooner than we thought!"

The water had nearly filled the chamber when the three thieves floated themselves to the center of the chamber. Bryn and Karliah each drank a potion, and Wynter ducked under the surface to test the ring. She found she could breathe easily, and relaxed slightly. They still weren't out of the woods—or the water—yet. They needed to find an escape route before the potions ran out and Bryn and Karliah drowned.

Swimming strongly, Wynter quickly explored the now-submerged cavern, her small Candlelight spell bobbing along oddly above her in the water. As she examined the roof of the chamber, she noticed an odd pipe jutting down through the stone that she hadn't noticed before. Quickly swimming over to Bryn and Karliah, she tugged on them to get their attention, then led the way up through the pipe. She prayed fervently to the Nine that she was right, or she had just doomed her friends.

After several heart-gripping moments, she broke the surface of a small chamber. Brynjolf came up next, spluttering and coughing. He pulled Karliah up; she was close to unconsciousness and the water around her swirled red.

The chamber had only one other exit, and Wynter helped Bryn pull Karliah completely out of the water before turning her attention to a chest she'd noticed, shoved into a far corner of the cave.

Brynjolf grinned at her. "Can't resist, can you?"

Karliah gave a weak smile. "Go ahead," she whispered. "I would."

They returned to the Guild headquarters and told the story to the rest of the "family", with Wynter downplaying her role in the matter. Well, most of the story, at any rate; by tacit agreement the three adventurers withheld any part having to do with the Nightingales. Wynter didn't relate how she had had to travel the Pilgrim's Path to unlock the Ebonmere, how she'd had to battle Sentinels who had forgotten their duty to Nocturnal because they'd been cut off from the Evergloam.

She deliberately didn't mention the tests she'd had to pass to reach Nocturnal's temple itself, or the conversation she'd had with the Daedric Prince of darkness. But she _did_ notice the new statue to Nocturnal in the Cistern, which no one seemed to comment upon, or realize had not been there before.

And she refrained from mentioning to Brynjolf that Karliah had been given one last meeting with Gallus before he returned to the Evergloam, the two pledging to be with each other again when her contract had been fulfilled.

_Bryn might be in love with her,_ she thought sadly, _but he's got his work cut out for him, winning her over. It won't be easy. _She almost felt sorry for him. As for herself, the past few days had opened her eyes. She realized now that she didn't really love Brynjolf, she'd only thought she had. The heartache she'd felt had been of her own making. She might be Guildmaster now—a status that was confirmed soon after their return by everyone present—but to Brynjolf she would always be "little sister."

For the next couple of weeks she worked tirelessly, refilling the Guild's coffers. Vex still treated her with the same condescension with which she treated everyone; Vekel at the Ragged Flagon continued to call her "Brynjolf's new protégé", while Bryn himself seemed to spend most of his time with Karliah, avoiding Wynter. The only one who seemed to acknowledge her change in status was Delvin, who from that point on greeted her with a cheery, "'Ello, boss, what can I do for you?"

Wynter supposed she shouldn't have expected much to change. She'd wanted her part in things to remain low-key. Though Bryn might deny it, the Guild was really run by him, Delvin and Vex. She was merely a figurehead. She stayed long enough to make sure everything was back to normal—or what passed for normal among a band of thieves—before announcing to the others that she would be gone for a while. Saying only that there were other tasks she should return to, she packed up her few belongings and boarded the carriage for Whiterun. It was past time she returned, she thought. The problem with the dragons had only been getting worse. She had avoided dealing with them long enough.

_"Well, it's about time you came to your senses," _said the Voice, and Wynter awoke with a start. She hadn't meant to drift off to sleep on the carriage, and it was the first time in months she'd heard the Woman's Voice. She wondered vaguely where she had been all this time, but didn't think she'd get a straight answer if she asked. In a way, though, it was reassuring to hear Her again, even while the Voice had scolded her. There was also a profound sense of comfort in it, and Wynter allowed a slight smile to play across her lips as the walls of Whiterun came into view.


	6. Chapter 5: Winterhold

**Wynter's Tale**

_Winterhold_

_(Disclaimer: I do not own the concept of the world of Skyrim, or any of the characters created by Bethesda which populate that world. Wynter is a character I created to play in the "Skyrim" video game, and thus was this fan fiction inspired; the character of Azura was created by my daughter Amanda for her game. My story follows the main quest line, but with the personal insights my character, Wynter, might have as told from her point of view. Some details of gameplay have been reworked to make a better story, and some dialogue lifted to give the reader a sense of familiarity. I give kudos to Bethesda for making such an engaging and inspiring game. Please read and review; constructive criticism is always welcome. Thank you.)_

Wynter spent several weeks in Whiterun at Breezehome. At first, when she'd gone about town, she'd heard whispers behind her back, and they weren't all nice.

"Dragonborn, huh!" one guard scoffed in a not-so-subtle voice. "If she truly was Dragonborn she'd do something about these dragon attacks we've been hearing about."

"I've heard rumors about her," Lillith Maiden-Loom whispered to Olava. "I have it from a reliable source that she's been seen in the company of the Thieves' Guild! Now why would the Dragonborn have ties to a bunch of rogues and cut-purses?"

"Selfish, that's what she is," Saffir sniffed. "Can't be bothered to help the common folk, oh, no. Only lifts a finger if there's something in it for her. Pah!"

Only a small handful spoke kindly about her; Adrianne at her forge, Arcadia in her alchemy shop, little Lucia, the beggar girl in the park, to whom Wynter gave a gold coin every time she saw her.

_There but for the grace of the gods go I,_ she thought, pity wrenching her gut. _If Adelvard hadn't been there, I might have ended up like Lucia._

In shame, she realized that the reputation of the Dragonborn had been tarnished by her actions. She wasn't the first to wear the title; it had been carried by others far grander and more qualified than her. But she was the one who bore the name now, and she knew she needed to take steps to change people's attitudes about her.

To this end, Lydia was a great help, once Wynter had humbly begged her forgiveness for the shabby way in which she'd treated her Housecarl.

"You once told me 'Respect has to be earned,'" Lydia reminded her. "You are my Thane, and I am sworn to protect you, with my life if necessary. And I will still do that, regardless how I feel about you as a person. But my feelings aside, if you want others to look upon the Dragonborn as someone they can trust to help them, then you need to start doing things to earn that trust."

"You're absolutely right," Wynter admitted. "It's time to put aside what I want and stop running from my destiny. Part of that destiny is to go to Winterhold, to the College of Wizards, and study magic. I'm going to need your help to accomplish that goal."

"My sword is yours, my Thane," Lydia said staunchly.

Wynter chuckled. "I don't need your sword for this, Lydia," she said, smiling. "I need your mind."

"My mind?" the older woman asked, startled. "I'm no mage. I don't know magic!"

"I know," Wynter nodded. "But I'm hoping you can teach me to read. Would you? Please?"

Lydia smiled warmly. "I'd be happy to, my Thane."

From then on, Wynter spent the day helping the people of Whiterun, chasing down bounties for Jarl Balgruuf, killing whatever dragon happened to show up, and running errands for anyone who needed assistance. At night, she and Lydia worked with a few children's books she'd picked up and some charcoal and paper. Laboriously at first, Wynter scrawled letters across a page, copying them from the books, sounding them out and committing them to memory. By the end of the week she was able to write her own name, though she spelled it the way the Imperials of Cyrodiil would have, rather than the way the season was spelled.

In two weeks she was beginning to notice a change in people's attitudes toward the Dragonborn, a shift toward a friendlier disposition. She finished reading the children's books and began challenging herself to read some of the more difficult histories, including _The Great War_ and _The Life of Uriel Septim VII._ As she became a better reader, she and Lydia would discuss the book at length, with Lydia filling her in on facts learned after some of the books had been written.

One night, nearly a month after her return to Whiterun, Wynter was returning from a "bounty hunt", as she called it, and had nearly reached her front door when a sudden commotion rang out by the main gate. Screams and shouts met her ear, and the sounds of steel clashing on steel. Whirling around she saw three figures in dark armor fighting with the guards.

Vampires!

Drawing her sword and dagger, she rushed into the fray. One guard was down and a second was being drained by the master vampire as she came up behind him and sank her sword into his kidneys up to its hilt.

The vampire screamed and whirled around as far as he could, pinned though he was by her sword. He lashed out with his clawed hands, catching her right across her face. Blood dripped into her eyes, making it hard to see, but she stabbed with her dagger while twisting the sword in place. The vampire screamed once more before succumbing to her onslaught. The second guard, the one she'd saved, finished off a thrall as the third vampire went down under an attack by Adrianne Avenicci.

"Adrianne!" Wynter gasped. "You shouldn't be out here! You could have gotten killed!"

"So could you," the Redguard blacksmith shrugged. "This is my home, too, Dragonborn, and I will defend it with my life, if necessary." She cleaned her blade on the vampire's shirt and gave Wynter a wink. "I'll buy their armor from you tomorrow, if you'd like." She turned and walked back to Warmaiden's, disappearing inside.

Wynter stared after the woman, then gave a helpless shrug as she set about looting the bodies.

"Thanks for your help, Dragonborn," the second guard told her. "I thought I was a goner for a moment there. I really didn't want to be turned into one of those horrible creatures!"

"Better drink this, then," Wynter said, handing the woman a curing potion. "Just to be on the safe side, you know."

"My thanks again, Dragonborn."

"My name is Wynter," the pale blonde woman replied, tugging the boots off the master vampire.

The guard observed her silently for a few heartbeats, then removed her helmet. Close-cropped yellow-blonde hair stood on end crowning a weather-beaten face of a woman of middle age. A nasty-looking scar ran across one side of her face from mouth to ear. It was an old scar, Wynter noticed. "Brynhild," the woman replied, extending her hand.

Wynter stood and took the proffered hand, shaking it firmly. "I'm glad to know you, Brynhild," she said, sincerely.

"And I you, Dragon—I mean, _Wynter_," Brynhild corrected herself, chuckling. "I know some of my fellow companions haven't been very kind lately, talking about you. But I've been watching you, and I noticed you're turning your life around. It's been good to see."

"Thank you for those words, Brynhild," Wynter said. "It means a lot to me."

"I'd better get back to my station," the older woman said, putting her helmet back on. "I know we all look alike on the surface, especially with our helmets on, but if you need anything, I'm usually posted here in the evenings at this time."

"Thank you," Wynter said, gathering up the armor and weapons she'd taken from the vampires. "That's good to know." She waved good-bye and headed home.

Winterhold was about as bleak a place as anyone could imagine. From the histories she had been reading there had been a major calamity seventy years ago which had caused half the town to fall off into the Sea of Ghosts. Most of the locals blamed it on the wizards at the College, and the Jarl, a querulous man by the name of Korir, did nothing to dissuade his people in that belief. Wynter soon learned that Korir had his heart set on being named High King of Skyrim, and felt that possession of a certain crown, known only as the Helm of Winterhold, would give him a leg up on his claim.

Taking advice from Lydia, who had remained behind in Whiterun, Wynter had decided to make the presence of the Dragonborn known in all of the nine Holds of Skyrim. To that end, she offered to find the Helm for Korir. It wasn't a difficult task, and upon her return, Korir gloated that the other Jarls would now have to take him more seriously.

_Good luck with that,_ she thought privately, but kept her peace and accepted his offer of friendship and the title of Thane of Winterhold that went with it. She was almost grateful to realize there was no property attached to it. She knew she wouldn't be spending a lot of time here.

After Korir warned her once more to steer clear of the College, Wynter thanked him, then turned right around and marched herself up the bridge to that same edifice.

An Altmer woman stopped her. "Hold," she commanded. "What business do you have here?"

"I want to join the College," Wynter said, unintimidated. She didn't care for Altmer very much, but she was learning they were not all affiliated with the Dominion.

"Why?"

The question seemed simple, but Wynter knew that anything that appeared simplistic seldom was. "I want to learn more about the mysteries of Aetherius," she said, bluffing, hoping the load of dung she'd just delivered would be accepted.

The Altmer woman considered her response. "A laudable goal indeed," she mused. "Still, we don't accept just anyone at the College. I will require a small demonstration of your talent, if you don't mind. Cast a _Fear_ spell on the symbol, there on the ground. Then we'll see if you have what it takes to become a mage."

A _Fear_ spell? Wynter quailed inside. She didn't know that one! Why couldn't it have been _Flames? _She'd known that one for years, since Adelvard had taught it to her after they'd left the Stronghold.

She swallowed her pride and answered, "I don't know it."

"Indeed?" the woman inquired, raising one eyebrow. "Not to worry, then. I can sell you the spell for thirty septims."

Grumbling inwardly, Wynter handed over the coins and received the spellbook. The Altmer woman gave her a few moments to peruse its contents, absorbing the knowledge, and Wynter felt the spell take form in her mind. The book vanished, and Wynter aimed at the symbol and focused the energy, releasing it from her hand. The symbol crackled and glowed with blue-white electricity.

"Very good," the Altmer woman approved. "It seems you may have something to offer the College after all. Come with me. I'll take you to Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard. She handles all the new inductees. I'm Faralda, by the way. I teach Destruction magic."

_My favorite kind, next to Restoration, _Wynter thought to herself. She made a mental note to become good friends with Faralda.

The Destruction mage left her at the gates of the College, pointing out Mirabelle in the courtyard some distance ahead. She was speaking to someone in a heated manner, and as Wynter drew closer she recognized immediately the hated robes of a Thalmor!

Clenching her fists and gritting her teeth, she made a supreme effort to keep herself under control. It wouldn't do to get kicked out of here before she even enrolled for killing a fellow student, even if he _was_ the hated enemy.

Mirabelle was speaking. "I believe I've made myself rather clear."

"Yes of course," the Thalmor said. "I'm simply trying to understand the reasoning behind the decision."

"You may be used to the Empire bowing to your every whim, Ancano, but I'm afraid you'll find the Thalmor receive no such treatment here. You are a guest of the College, here at the pleasure of the Arch-Mage. I hope you appreciate the opportunity."

"Yes, of course," Ancano said unctuously, though it was clear from his manner of speaking that he appreciated nothing of the sort. "The Arch-Mage has my thanks."

"Very good," Mirabelle said. "Then we're done here."

Ancano bowed stiffly and stalked away from her, toward Wynter. He seemed to notice her only just before he would have plowed into her.

"Wha—huh?" he exclaimed, startled. "Oh. You must be one of the students here. Your superior and I were simply having a... discussion about my level of access to the College."

Wynter felt some sort of comment was required. "It sounded more like an argument to me."

"Well, perhaps that is why you're merely an Apprentice here," he said in a most patronizing manner. Wynter bristled, but kept a rein on her temper.

"Is there some kind of problem?" she asked, still curious to know what a Thalmor was doing at the College when he clearly wasn't a student, as she'd first thought.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Ancano said dismissively. "I shall be quite capable of observing everything that goes on here." He brushed past her and headed toward one of the two large towers that flanked the main gate.

_Count to ten,_ she told herself. _He's not worth it._

"May I help you?" It was Mirabelle speaking to her, and Wynter pasted a smile on her face before turning around. She explained to the Master Wizard her desire to study magic, and Mirabelle merely nodded shortly and told her to follow her.

"I'll show you your room here," she said, "and then you may join your fellow students in the classroom in the Hall of the Elements over there." She threw a nod backwards at the third tower behind them. "Master Tolfdir is already in session, so we'll get you settled as quickly as possible so you won't miss anything."

They entered the tower to the right of the main gate, looking outward, which Mirabelle told her was the Hall of Attainment, where all the students slept. She was shown to her room, which was small, but pleasantly furnished. Two things stuck in her mind immediately: there was an inordinate amount of Nord mead sitting about, and someone had a fascination for human skulls.

"As soon as you've settled in, you may join your class in the Hall of the Elements," Mirabelle told her.

"What's the other tower?" Wynter asked.

"That's the Hall of Countenance," the Master Wizard told her. "It's where most of the faculty sleeps, but there's also an alchemy lab and an enchanter's table there for your use during your studies."

"What's expected of me, here?" Wynter inquired.

"There are no expectations," Mirabelle replied. "This College is a place to study and practice magic freely. Hopefully any discoveries made in your pursuits will be shared with the members of the College first. That way we all benefit."

"Where can I learn new spells?" Wynter wanted to know. She was eager to add to her repertoire, and she already knew whom she was hitting up for Destruction spells.

"Well, that depends on what you're looking for," the Master Wizard explained. "Faralda can teach Destruction spells, and offers training in that school. Phinis is one of the best Conjurers in all of Skyrim, and can help with spells from that school. Don't let Tolfdir fool you; he's the pre-eminent scholar on Alteration. One of the best in Tamriel, and always willing to pass on his knowledge. If you can find him and focus his attention, there's a great deal Drevis can teach you about Illusion magic. And finally, there's Colette. She may be... difficult to get along with, but she's very knowledgeable when it comes to Restoration magic."

Mirabelle left her to unpack—not that she had brought much with her—and she took a few moments to poke around the tower to see what and who else might be sharing quarters with her. At this time of day, however, she pretty much had the place to herself. It amazed her to see so many personal items left lying in the open, and her avaricious heart desperately wanted to abscond with some of them.

"I wouldn't," a voice behind her said, and she whirled around to see the Bosmer scholar Enthir standing behind her. He grinned at her. "Hello Guild Master," he greeted her. "Thinking of starting a branch of operations here at the College? That's really _my_ territory, you know."

"Hello, Enthir," she breathed, relieved it wasn't Mirabelle. "I'd forgotten you were here at the College."

"How's Karliah?" he asked, conversationally, as they headed down the spiral staircase together.

"Fine, I guess," Wynter answered. "I don't see much of her." A thought occurred to her, and she asked, "Enthir, I need to know, what's allowed here and what's not?"

"Hmmm….well, stealing anything is likely to get you banished," he said, pointedly. "Turning a fellow student inside out or killing them in other ways, yeah, that's kind of frowned upon, too."

"Has that actually happened?" Wynter asked, skeptically.

"Stealing stuff? Oh yeah," Enthir nodded. "Happens occasionally."

"No, I mean the other," she scowled.

Enthir grinned. "Not while I've been here," he said. "But listen, if you need anything rare or hard-to-find, come see me. I might be able to get my hands on it for you—for a price, that is!" He waved at her cheerily and returned to his room. So he'd fence things for her; that was good to know also. Wynter scurried out the door and headed to her first class in the Hall of the Elements.

Master Tolfdir was already in lecture mode when she arrived, but he paused to greet her and recapped for her what the others had already heard. Besides herself there were four other students: a Khajiit named J'Zargo, a Dunmer girl named Brylyna, a Bosmer girl named Azura and a young Nord named Onmund, who gave her an appreciative look before returning his attention to Master Tolfdir. Wynter smiled back at him. He _was_ rather good-looking, in a Nord way, and Wynter found herself giving him the once-over with her eyes, though he was unaware of it.

"Welcome, welcome!" Master Tolfdir was speaking to her now, and she focused her attention on him, and away from the very presentable-looking Onmund. "We were just beginning. Please, stay and listen." He turned back to his class.

"So, as I was saying, the first thing to understand is that magic is, by its very nature, volatile and dangerous. Unless you can control it, it can and will destroy you."

The Dunmer girl, Brelyna, spoke up. "Sir, I think we all understand that fairly well. We wouldn't be here if we couldn't control magic!"

"Of course, my dear. Of course. You all certainly possess some inherent natural ability. That much is not being questioned. What I'm talking about is true control, mastery of magic. It takes years, if not decades, of practice and study."

"Then what are we waiting for?" the Khajiit, J'Zargo said impatiently. "Let's get started!"

"Please, please!" Master Tolfdir stressed. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. Eagerness must be tempered with caution, or else disaster is inevitable."

"But we've only just arrived here," Onmund protested. "You've no idea what any of us are capable of. Why not give us a chance to show you what we can do?"

"Safety's all very well and good," the Bosmer girl, Azura, said slowly. "But if I'm facing an enemy who is bound and determined to kill me, a Warding spell isn't going to help me take him down." Wynter silently approved the girl's point. It was a good one.

"There! See?" Onmund crowed. "She agrees with us!"

Master Tolfdir sighed. "Very well," he sighed. He turned back to Wynter. "You, my dear," he said, "what's your name?"

"Wynter," she replied.

"Very well, Wynter, you've been quiet so far. What do you think?"

"I agree with them," Wynter said easily.

"Well, since I seem to be in the minority on this," Tolfdir said reluctantly, "perhaps we should start with Wards. Wynter, stand over there on that symbol," he gestured to the mosaic on the floor a few feet away. "You cast a Ward spell, and keep it up. I'll throw a spell at you, and you can all see how effective they truly can be."

"Ummm…Master Tolfdir?" Wynter hesitated.

"It's alright," he assured her. "As long as you keep your Ward up, you won't get hurt."

"I don't know any Ward spells," she confessed.

The Alterations master blinked. "Oh," he said. "Very well, I'll teach you one." And he proceeded to do just that, without any spellbook. He showed her the hand motions, and taught her the words she needed to focus upon in her mind to channel the energy. She noticed that despite their protests, the others paid close attention as well. In a few moments, she felt confident she could cast the spell on her own.

"That's right, now stand over there," he directed her once again. "Keep your Ward up."

Wynter hastily cast the spell, as Tolfdir already was winding up to throw something at her. She blocked out everything else around her, all the other distractions, and concentrated on keeping the wibbley-wobbley greenish Ward in place. Tolfdir's _Firebolt_ dissipated harmlessly against it.

"Well done!" he congratulated her. The other students murmured kudos to her, but it was clear they were less than satisfied at the demonstration. "I think we're ready to move on to something more difficult," he announced. "And the best place to do that is at an ancient ruin which has been under exploration by the College for some time now. If you'll all meet me in a few hours at the ruins of Saarthal, we can continue with the next phase of your education."

Master Tolfdir left, leaving his class to mill about or follow him, as they chose.

"You're new here, aren't you?" the Bosmer girl, Azura, asked her as she hesitated. Wynter nodded. "Me too," Azura said. "I wasn't sure I'd make it here, with all the civil unrest in Skyrim at the moment. And our caravan was attacked by a dragon on the way! Fortunately the guards of the Reach were able to fight it off, but I don't think they killed it. It flew away, though, and didn't come back. Have you ever seen a real dragon?"

Wynter opened her mouth to reply, but Azura didn't give her a chance.

"What type of magic do you like? I'm partial to Destruction myself, but I really like all kinds. I think I'm going to concentrate on Lightning spells when we start studying Destruction magic. Lightning's good against other mages, you know, as well as vampires and hagravens; it drains magicka. Do you know what magicka is? Oh, of course you do, silly me. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have some rudimentary knowledge of magic."

Without realizing it, they had exited the Hall of the Elements and were crossing the central courtyard. Azura was continuing to talk in her quiet, rapid-fire way.

"I'm from Valenwood. Do you know where that is? I miss my home, but it was such a wonderful opportunity to be able to come here, and I don't want to disappoint my family by washing out. Well, they're not really my 'family'; I was raised by the Elders, but I consider them my family. Most of my kin are archers, and I'm not that bad with a bow myself, but I really feel more of an affinity for magic."

She paused, then looked keenly at Wynter. "You don't talk much, do you?"

"I would if you'd give me a chance to get a word in edgewise," Wynter grinned. Despite herself, she found she liked the Bosmer girl.

Azura blushed. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?" she asked sheepishly. "The Elders warned me I talk too much, and need to give others a chance. That's something I hope to learn how to do here."

Wynter nodded. "I think we're all going to be learning new things here," she said.

Wynter and Azura were the last to arrive at Saarthal. They'd gotten lost in the mountain pass along the way, and had been forced to fight off a wolf pack led by a huge ice wolf, and a handful of ice wraiths. The two women divided up the wraiths' teeth between them, but Azura insisted Wynter take the pelts.

"I can't imagine what I would do with them!" she exclaimed.

"Well, I can," Wynter grinned. "Pelts become leather, which becomes materials with which to make armor."

"Oh! Do you smith armor and weapons?" the Bosmer girl asked her.

"Not often," Wynter admitted, "but I do when I have the chance."

"Did you make the armor you're wearing?"

Wynter looked down at her well-worn, comfortable Guild Master leathers. Clearly, Azura didn't recognize them for what they were. "No, someone else made these," she told her friend. "I just try to keep them in good repair."

"So, good, then," Azura said happily. "You'll make better use of the pelts than I."

They continued on toward Saarthal in companionable silence, until Wynter broke it.

"See that temple, way up there on the mountain?" she asked, pointing.

Her friend squinted, searched and then nodded. "You mean the huge statue of the woman rising up just there?" she asked.

"Yes," Wynter affirmed. "Did you know that's the Temple to the Daedric Prince Azura?"

The Bosmer girl stopped and stared. "Seriously?" Wynter nodded. "I had no idea!"

"How did you get the name of a Daedra?" Wynter asked.

"I'm not sure," her friend admitted. "The Elders never mentioned it to me. I don't think my parents made the connection. They probably just heard the name and liked it. How did you get your name?"

Wynter hesitated, then decided to be truthful. "I was raised in a thieves' stronghold by an old rogue who found me right after I was born. My mother died giving birth to me, so he took me and raised me. He named me 'Wynter' for the season in which I was born. I only recently learned how to read and write, and since I was brought up in Cyrodiil, I just decided to spell my name the way they would have."

"Well, I like it," Azura declared. "It suits you, with your pale hair and eyes."

They continued on again in silence, broken only by the crunching of the snow beneath their feet. Eventually they made it to the ancient ruin and entered it with their classmates.

The others were excited, and quickly moved forward into the depths of the barrow. Onmund hung back and smiled at her.

"New here too, eh?" he asked her. When she nodded, he said, "It's good to see another Nord. I feared I'd be the only one. Almost doesn't feel like Skyrim, being so far away from the rest of the world here."

"What do you mean?" Wynter asked. "Why did you think you'd be the only Nord here?"

"The College is a bit of an oddity in Skyrim," he explained. "Magic isn't something that's looked upon fondly here. That's why there aren't many Nords here at the College. Nords don't trust magic, or those that use it. Made it difficult for me growing up. Magic is shunned by most. If it can't be swung over your head and used to crack skulls, most Nords want nothing to do with it. Magic is seen as something for elves, and weaker races."

"The people of Winterhold, especially Jarl Korir, didn't have a high opinion of the College," Wynter mused.

"They won't say much, but most people have very strong opinions about the College and those that study here. Don't expect the local Nords to take kindly to you once they find out you're from the College."

_So much for being a Thane of Winterhold,_ Wynter thought sardonically. "Why don't they like us much?" she asked. She already had a pretty good idea, but she wanted to hear what Onmund thought.

"Well, look at the evidence," he said as they descended a spiraling ramp. "Nords generally don't trust magic, so it's not off to a good start. Throw in the Oblivion Crisis, which was caused by magic-users, and the troubles now with the Aldmeri Dominion, who are elves and magic users. And finally take the fact that the College is the only thing left standing after most of Winterhold was destroyed. It's all fairly damning."

"Some don't believe the College had anything to do with the Great Collapse," she pointed out.

"Perhaps," Onmund conceded. "But that's not really the point, is it? The point is, most Nords, especially those who live in Winterhold, _do_ believe it. And you'll never convince them otherwise." He moved on, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the group. Wynter dallied behind and poked into every shadowy corner she could find, uncovering an odd coin here and there, a few ore samples which she tucked into her backpack, and an entire vein of iron which she felt compelled to stop and dig out.

She finally caught up with Master Tolfdir and the others, who didn't seem to notice how long she'd been gone.

"Wynter, my dear," he told her, "why don't you see if you can assist Arniel Gane? He's one of our scholars, here working on cataloging our finds. I expect he'd appreciate some help in locating any additional magical artifacts here in the ruins. Any enchanted items will do; the usefulness of the enchantment is irrelevant. If you find anything, the class can look it over."

Wynter nodded and headed in the direction Master Tolfdir had pointed, catching up with the scholar as he examined broken bits of detritus and scribbled notes in his journal. He looked up at her, annoyed, when she told him she was there to help him, and brushed her off with a "look over there but don't mess up my research."

She found three small rings in three separate areas, but Arniel's attitude had been so rude she decided not to advise him of her finds. Further exploration brought her to a narrow alcove beyond an iron portcullis-like gate that seemed to be stuck open. On the far wall of the alcove was an amulet, just hanging there. _Now this is more like it!_ she thought, reaching for the necklace and taking it down off the wall.

A sudden, loud, metallic _clang!_ alerted her to the iron gate behind her, now completely closed. Master Tolfdir wandered over. "What in the world is all that racket about?" he demanded.

Angry at herself for falling for such a simple trap, Wynter grumbled, "I'm stuck in here!"

"How did this happen?" Tolfdir asked.

"I pulled an amulet off the wall," she explained, showing it to him.

"Hmmm…." he mused. "Try using the amulet to see if the gate will open," he suggested.

Wynter shrugged and pulled the amulet over her head, settling it on her chest. Behind her, on the wall where she'd found it, waves of energy emanated, like heat waves off a stone wall in the summertime. Tolfdir grew very excited at this.

"I wonder," he said slowly, "what effect your spells might have on it?"

Personally, Wynter didn't feel her spells would have much effect at all. She decided to try something a bit more dramatic.

"_FUS, RO!" _she Shouted at the wall. A loud cracking met their slightly deafened ears, and the wall crumbled away, revealing a passage behind it. She also her the sound of metal behind her as the gate lifted and she was free to go. Tolfdir pushed past her to examine this new development.

"Well, this is highly unusual!" he enthused. "And very interesting. Why in the world would this be sealed off? What is this place?" He made absolutely no comment on her Shouting the wall down. Wynter was beginning to wonder just how clueless her mentor seemed to be.

_Keeping something out, or keeping something in? _Wynter wondered. She saw Azura hovering several yards down the passageway from which they'd come and motioned her over.

"What did you find?" Azura asked, amazed.

"I don't know," Wynter said, "but Master Tolfdir just went down that tunnel."

"We'd better go after him and make sure he's alright," her friend said.

"My thoughts exactly," Wynter agreed. The two women followed their mentor into the passageway.

Several twists and turns brought them into a chamber with a small altar circled by three sarcophagi. Azura muttered something under her breath that Wynter didn't quite catch, but it sounded like "Eww."

While Master Tolfdir examined the sarcophagi, Azura poked around the altar. Without warning, Wynter suddenly felt dizzy and the world around her seemed to slow to a standstill. Bright light filtered in from some undefinable place, and a figure stood near one sarcophagus, standing behind Azura.

"_Hold, mage, and listen well," he said. "I am Nerien. Know that you have set in motion a chain of events that cannot be stopped. Judgment has not been passed, as you had no way of knowing. Judgment will be passed on your actions to come, and how you deal with the dangers ahead of you. This warning is passed to you because the Psijic Order believes in you. You, mage, and you alone, have the potential to prevent disaster. Take great care, and know that the Order is watching." _The apparition faded, and time seemed to resume around her.

Azura and Tolfdir had seen nothing, apparently, though the Alterations Master admitted to feeling "rather strange" for a moment. Wynter needed answers, however, so she told her companions what she'd just experienced.

"The Psijic Order?" Master Tolfdir exclaimed. "Are you quite sure about that? That's very odd. And danger ahead? Why that doesn't make any sense at all. The Psijics have no connection to these ruins. And no one's seen any of their order in a long time."

"Why would the Psijic Order contact Wynter?" Azura asked.

"I have no idea," their mentor said, "but it's fascinating. Assuming it's true, of course. The Isle of Artaeum disappeared over a hundred years ago, and no one has seen them since. And yet now, suddenly, they have chosen to contact you? Why, it's intriguing! If nothing else, I'd take it as a compliment. The Psijics have only ever dealt with those they feel worthy." He returned to his examination of the coffins and Azura leaned in closer to Wynter.

"How does it feel to be worthy?" she joked, with a twinkle in her eye.

"I'll let you know when it happens," Wynter smirked back.

"Seriously, though," Azura continued, "what do you think it means?"

Wynter considered the words of the Psijic monk. "I think we need to be on our guard here," she replied. "There's something here they think could be very dangerous, and I don't think Master Tolfdir is aware of it or he wouldn't be taking things so lightly."

"You think there might be a battle?" Azura asked, wide-eyed.

"I'm almost certain of it," the Dragonborn replied.

"We should search these coffins," Master Tolfdir said now, recalling their attention. "We might something useful—"

As he spoke, two of the sarcophagi gave resounding _booms_ as they cracked open. The lids fell heavily to the floor and shattered, sending shrapnel and dust flying. A piece of stone whizzed past Azura's head and bounced off the wall behind her. Another caught Wynter on the shin. Her armor protected her, but it was painful, and she knew she'd have a bruise there by the end of the day.

Two draugr stepped out of the coffins and drew their ancient swords. Azura squeaked in surprise, but kept her head long enough to put up a Ward before sending a stream of electricity at the one closest to her. Master Tolfdir sent out wave after wave of fire with one hand while keeping his own Ward activated with the other.

Wynter immediately crouched and drew her sword and dagger. In a few minutes it was all over and the draugr lay still and unmoving on the cold stone floor. Hopefully, they would stay that way this time.

One of the coffins revealed a doorway beyond, and their Alterations master excitedly passed through it into the tunnel beyond. Azura rolled her eyes as she followed him. Wynter hung back to loot the bodies and to see if there was anything useful in the altar. A small satchel tucked under some linen wraps yielded some alchemical ingredients and a couple of potions. Wynter put them away carefully in her backpack and belt pouch and hurried after the others.

She found them waiting for her by a closed gate, near a lever in the floor. They threw the lever to open the gate and entered the large, circular room beyond. In the center of the room was a large pool of water covered over with a rusty iron grating, and a large stone walkway arched over it. Surrounding the room on this level, and rising hundreds of feet above it, they could see rank upon rank of coffins.

"Great," Azura mumbled. "More draugr!" Her fingers clenched and released, limbering up for another spell, if it should be necessary.

It was.

Four of the coffins cracked open and more of the walking dead spilled forth to attack them. Wynter took the fight to one who shots bolts of ice at them. One bolt pierced her side, and she felt a stab of pain and a shudder go through her as the cold sapped her strength. She gritted her teeth against it and swung with both sword and dagger, though it wasn't as easy as before. The draugr went down and she turned to see two others backing Azura up against the arched stone walkway in the center of the room.

Crouched, moving as swiftly as she could, Wynter came up behind one of the undead and got her sword and dagger around the creature, slicing with both, decapitating it. Azura was using both electricity and fire on the other, and the creature shuddered as it gave up its unlife.

Master Tolfdir fired off several bolts of fire at the one menacing him, and took it out before Wynter could come to his aid.

"Well, that's done!" he exclaimed. "Now let's have a look at this place."

Wynter and Azura exchanged a look. Their Master didn't seem the least concerned that the dead were prowling around, and had threatened their own lives! They certainly never imagined _this_ when they decided to come to the College to study magic!

"Well, we wanted practical applications, didn't we?" Azura sighed.

"We should be more careful what we wish for," Wynter grinned, and her friend agreed.

"I think I'd like to spend some time here and examine this room more completely," Master Tolfdir told them. "You two should keep exploring. Let me know if you find anything unusual."

_As if walking dead aren't unusual enough?_ Wynter thought, as she and Azura examined the gate and levers blocking their way.

"I'm so glad I left Valenwood," Azura muttered under her breath.

"Why is that?" Wynter asked.

"I would have had to eat one of these things," her friend said, simply.

Wynter turned and stared at the Bosmer girl. "You what?" she asked, horrified.

Azura blinked at her. "I thought you knew," she said. "I'm Bosmer."

"What does that have to do with it?" the Dragonborn demanded.

Azura sighed in resignation. "My people practice ritual cannibalism," she said unashamedly. "We have to eat our enemies; it's part of the Green Pact we made with Y'ffre centuries ago." At Wynter's look of revulsion, she added. "It's not as bad as it sounds—well, most of the time, anyway. We're carnivores; we don't eat plants. If I kill a goat or a deer, I have to eat it."

"And if you kill a person?" Wynter couldn't help asking, though she already knew the answer. Her friend shrugged. "That's disgusting!" Wynter exclaimed.

"Now you see why I left Valenwood," Azura said drily.

This certainly put her friend into a new light. Wynter wondered what might happen if they had to kill a group of necromancers or vampires. But Azura seemed almost as revolted by her race's strange code of ethics as Wynter. Still, she couldn't help but feel uneasy in the wood elf's presence now, knowing what she'd just learned.

_But is she really any different, now that you know?_ she asked herself honestly. _You liked her before you knew it; Azura hasn't changed, only your knowledge of her background has. And she doesn't seem to like it any better than you do._

Wynter decided not to think about it for now. She needed all her wits about her as they crawled through the dungeon of Saarthal.

The next several chambers involved skirmishes with more draugr. Azura was the first to notice the fire trap runes on the floor, pulling Wynter backwards just before she would have stepped on one. The two friends eventually came to a room with tri-faced pillars which turned on rotating bases. The gate at the far end of the room was closed.

"I've seen these before," Wynter said. "We need to set them in the correct pattern, or—" she left the sentence hang.

"Or what?" Azura asked.

"Or we set off a trap," Wynter finished, examining a series of small holes in the walls, all pointed toward the center. "Poisoned darts, from the look of it, too."

"How do we know what the pattern is?" Azura shuddered. Getting skewered repeatedly by poisoned darts was not top on her list of Ways to Die.

"There's usually a clue lying around, something nearby which will tell us. Look around." The two women scoured the room, looking in every corner and alcove, until Wynter noticed the bas-relief plaques on the walls behind the pillars, high enough up to be hidden in the cobwebs and shadows. Noting which animals were depicted on the plaques, they rotated the pillars to match. Wynter ordered the Bosmer girl to stand clear of the room while she pulled the lever.

"But what if we're wrong?" Azura demanded. "You could get peppered with poisoned darts!"

"I'm pretty quick," Wynter said, preparing her Whirlwind Sprint in her mind. "Just stand clear of the doorway so I can get through if I need to."

When she was sure Azura was out of the way, Wynter threw the lever and Shouted, _"Wuld!"_ to exit the room as quickly as she could.

"By the Divines!" Azura exclaimed, as her friend rushed past her. In the room with the pillars, the gate at the far end lifted. "How in Oblivion did you _do _that?"

"It's a gift," Wynter said shortly. "Let's get moving."

"Oh no, you don't!" Azura said, grabbing the Nord woman by the arm. "No one just does something like that. A little while ago I heard something similar, back in the other room where you got trapped. That was you, wasn't it?"

Wynter nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah, I guess I was showing off a bit."

"So? Talk to me, Wynter," Azura begged. "What does it mean?"

Swiftly, and as briefly as she could, she told her friend about the Thu'ums she had been learning.

The Bosmer girl's eyes widened. "Thu'ums? You mean Shouts in the Dragon tongue?" Wynter nodded. "So you're—"

"Dragonborn, yeah," Wynter finished.

"Wow," said Azura after a moment. "That's a heavy burden you bear. If I can do anything to help, just name it."

A wave of relief flooded Wynter. Her friend understood! She put her hand on Azura's shoulder.

"You just did, my friend," she smiled, gratefully. "Now can we get moving?"

They passed through the gate and down a short corridor into a chamber with a raised area accessible by two wooden ramps. From somewhere above they heard the now-familiar tell-tale shuffle and coughing of another draugr.

Wynter held up her hand and motioned to Azura that they should split up and ascend either side of the platform. Azura nodded and headed to the right-hand ramp; Wynter headed to the left and went into her "sneak mode", crouching and moving as quietly as she could.

The two women reached the top at the same time. Azura caught Wynter's eye and indicated she would distract the draugr, who was peering around the floor below, trying to spot the source of the noise it had heard. Wynter shook her head furiously, knowing she was better able to take any damage the undead might deal out, but Azura was already winding up her spell, throwing off a double-blast of Ice Spikes at the draugr.

Snarling, the creature turned toward the mage, advancing rapidly and taking a deep inhale.

_"FUS RO DAH!" _it Shouted, and Azura went flying backwards like a rag doll, slamming against the stone wall and sliding down onto a shelf-like area. She lay there stunned, unable to move.

"NO!" Wynter screamed. The draugr turned and glared evilly at her, advancing with greatsword raised.

_"Feim!"_ Wynter Shouted, and the draugr blade passed harmlessly through her as she maneuvered her way around the sarcophagus to get a closer look at Azura.

_Please don't let her be dead, _she prayed to the Nine, _please don't let her be dead!_

"Azura!" she called, keeping her eyes on the draugr. Her Shout would only last a few more heartbeats. "Azura, are you okay?"

For a moment all she heard was a thin moan. She wanted to look, but dared not take her attention off her enemy, which was still trying to cleave her in two.

"I'm alright, I think," came the weak reply. "Give me a minute."

"Stay where you are," Wynter ordered. "I'll handle this!" Relieved, Wynter knew she could now deal with the problem at hand. The ledge where Azura rested had no bridge or ramp to it, so the draugr would not be able to reach her. She was safe, for the moment.

A tingling sensation told her time had run out with her Shout, and she needed to move before the next blow fell. She quickly tumbled to the other side of the platform, hoping the undead would follow after her. She blocked the greatsword as it swung down to decapitate her and grunted at the effort. The draugr weapon was larger, stronger and heavier than her own steel sword, and she promised herself a trip to the smithy if she survived this dungeon.

_"FUS RO!"_ she Shouted, and the draugr staggered backwards a pace or two, giving Wynter enough time to head down the ramp to the floor below. She quickly drew her bow and nocked an arrow, taking a moment to be sure it was one with a poisoned tip. Carefully, she drew back the bowstring and waited for a clear shot.

She saw her arrow hit, but it seemed to have little effect on her foe. "Damn it!" she swore. The draugr was faster than she had anticipated, and it was time to drop the bow and draw the blades again.

_"FUS RO DAH!" _ it Shouted at her. Wynter felt her feet leave the floor and end up over her head. She hit the ground hard and saw the undead coming at her. Stunned, she was helpless to defend herself against its attack.

Suddenly the creature lit up in flames and staggered again. Shaking her head to clear it, Wynter saw Azura level one Firebolt after another at the enemy from her vantage point on the ledge. It was the distraction Wynter needed. She closed in and finished off the undead with her dual flurry attack, which she had begun to call her "dance of death". The draugr crumpled and sank to the floor in a heap.

A soft _thud_ and a pattering of leather on wood, then stone, told her Azura had leaped from her perch to rejoin her.

"You know, Wynter," Azura remarked conversationally, "for someone who wanted training in magic, you certainly rely too heavily on your weapons!"

"It's a comfort thing," Wynter grinned. "Thanks for saving my butt!" She walked over to retrieve her bow and together they climbed back up the platform to take what plunder they could find before moving on to the next chamber.

Master Tolfdir joined them soon after, once they had solved another rotating-pillar puzzle. This one was more frustrating, because turning one pillar to the correct side often caused other pillars to spin, negating the effort. Azura figured out the correct sequence in which to turn them so that the proper pattern stayed in place.

The chamber they now found themselves in left them gasping in awe: suspended above the lower floor was an enormous bluey-green orb, encrypted with runes which seemed to float on its surface. Black lines across the face of the orb seemed to indicate a joining or seam line where various plates were held together, though in what manner it was unclear.

A prickling sensation of danger ran up and down Wynter's spine. This was what the Psijic monk, Nerien had tried to warn her about, in his oh-so-vague way. But what kind of danger lurked here, and how was she to avert it?

The cracking of yet another sarcophagus brought her attention back to the present. A very large, very menacing-looking draugr climbed out and glanced around the chamber, finding them easily since they'd made no attempt to hide. It advanced up one ramp toward them, glowing with an icy white apparition, as Tolfdir ran down another toward the orb.

"Master Tolfdir!" Azura exclaimed, putting up her Ward. "What are you doing?"

"Just see if you can keep his attention for a little bit while I try something here!" the Alterations Master said.

"This is hardly the time for experiments!" Wynter yelled, but she knew her mentor didn't hear her. She drew her blades and prepared herself for battle.

_"Zun Haal Viik!"_ she Shouted, hoping to disarm the undead, but he was powerful, and his weapon stayed in his hand. _Crap,_ she thought. _Now I have to recharge before I can try another Shout!_

Azura threw off Firebolts at him, but they seemed to bounce harmlessly off his armor.

"Nothing's working!" she called out to Wynter. "What should we do?"

"Let's see if steel works," the Dragonborn gritted. She struck out with both weapons, gratified to see both hits landing, though they did little damage except to dim the iciness of his appearance.

Suddenly the frost winked out completely, and Tolfdir called up from below, "There! Now attack it!"

Wynter quickly struck out again, after dodging the first attack by the draugr. Azura sent one Ice Spike after the other at it, her precision attacks striking vital areas while avoiding hitting Wynter. After several moments, it was over. Wynter and Azura headed down the stairs to see if anything of value had been interred here with the draugr.

There was a sealed roll of paper on the altar below, and Azura handed it to Wynter.

"Here," she smiled. "Do the honors."

Wynter broke the seal and unrolled the scroll, reading as she went:

_"Be bound here, Jyrik, murderer, betrayer_

_Condemned by your crimes against realm and lord._

_May your name and your deeds be forgotten forever_

_And the charm which you bear be sealed by our ward."_

The two women looked at each other in consternation.

"Oops!" said Azura. "I guess we weren't supposed to release him."

"But we killed him," Wynter pointed out, "So it should be alright, shouldn't it?" Her friend shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know, Wynter. I just hope that doesn't come back to haunt us."

"Well, in the meantime, let's see what's here."

There was a staff lying on the altar, which Wynter told Azura to keep. "You're more likely to use it than I. It'll just collect dust at home, or I'll do something stupid and sell it."

Azura looked suitably horrified at the notion. "I'd better take it then," she agreed. "What about that broken amulet he's wearing?"

"I'll hang onto that, if you don't mind," Wynter offered. "Something about it intrigues me, like there's another part missing from it. I might find it somewhere in my travels."

They rejoined their mentor, who was still staring in fascination at the orb floating five feet off the floor. Azura had been avoiding looking at it, saying it was making her queasy, and Wynter had to agree something about it seemed—malevolent.

"This is absolutely fascinating," Master Tolfdir exclaimed, delighted. "The Arch-Mage _must_ be informed, but I dare not leave this unattended. You two ladies should head back to Winterhold and inform him at once. He _must_ come and see this for himself!"

"You mean we have to go all the way back through that dungeon again?" Azura asked in dismay, but Tolfdir was heedless, having turned back to the orb.

"Maybe not," Wynter said, pulling Azura away by the arm. "I've been in a few of these ancient Nord ruins, and there's usually a back way out."

A quick search turned up that "back way" in the form of a door behind the orb's platform. Without bidding Tolfdir farewell—they knew he wouldn't hear them anyway—the two women exited the chamber and found themselves in a strange room filled with ferns and other undergrowth. A now-familiar chanting filled the air, and Wynter saw the curving wall hidden at the back of the room, beyond the glare of a beam of sunlight pouring in from somewhere above.

"By the gods!" Azura whispered. "What _is_ that?"

"A word wall," Wynter told her, striding forward confidently. "Written in the language of the Dragons." She stepped close enough to find the one word which leaped out at her, surrounding and suffusing her with its energy. Something unlocked in her mind, and she paid the cost with the soul of the last dragon she had defeated.

_Nus._ Statue. This was the final Word of the Ice Form Shout, she knew. She raised her head to the ceiling and Shouted all three, to test their power.

"_Iis Slen Nus!"_

The cone of cold ripped forth, and had anything living been in its path, she knew it would have been frozen solid.

"Y'ffre save me!" Azura breathed. Wynter turned to see her friend staring at her, wild-eyed and ready to panic.

"Azura, it's okay, really," she said calmly. "This is part of who I am."

"I saw you using them earlier, the Shouts," the Bosmer girl said with a tremor in her voice. "I knew you could use them to hinder your enemy, but this—this could _kill_ somebody!"

"Yes," Wynter said, in all seriousness. "And don't think I wasn't scared to death that the draugr back there had killed you when it blew you against the wall."

Azura gave a weak smile. "I'm made of sterner stuff than that," she said.

"Well, it scared me just the same," Wynter admitted. "I think you're the first real friend I can ever remember having."

"Anything else I should know about you?" Azura half-joked. Wynter thought now was not the best time to admit to most of her past.

"If I think of anything, I'll let you know," she said coyly.

"Good enough for me, _Dragonborn,_" the Bosmer girl grinned, placing emphasis on Wynter's title.

Wynter chuckled. "Let's get out of here, _Cannibal,_" she shot back, throwing equal emphasis on her friend's heritage.

Laughing, the two women left Saarthal to return to Winterhold and report their findings to the Arch-Mage.


End file.
